Conversations with John the Hobbit
by Ardna
Summary: Some unexpected changes have come to the lives of John Watson and Sherlock Holmes...
1. In and Out of the Flat

John looked over at the flat's window from where he was nestled in the couch. He watched the faint light coming in from it for a moment, sulking.

"You know, I _am _aware that I'm shorter than you, Sherlock," John said.

"Yes?" Sherlock's tone was unmistakably amused.

"And I've had no problem with that," John continued. "So Sherlock Holmes is a few inches taller than John Watson. Okay, I'm fine with that. No big deal."

Sherlock gave no response. John could imagine him, just out of view, grinning to himself.

"But, the thing is…" John said, "This, well, this is just ridiculous! And completely unfair."

"Life isn't fair," Sherlock replied, and John noted how the light outside seemed to grow brighter for a moment. Did that normally happen when Sherlock spoke?

"Yeah, I know that, but..." John glared out the window, and exclaimed with frustration, "Did they _have_ to make you the dragon?!"

Flames shot past the window as Sherlock laughed.

* * *

><p>Just something I'm doing for fun, to pass the time whilst we all wait for <em>The Hobbit<em> to reach theatres. I'll put up a new conversation every month until _The Hobbit _comes out. Enjoy!


	2. London Street

John watched his feet as he and Sherlock walked down the street. Normally, he wasn't the sort of person to be interested in his toes, but when you suddenly find yourself with a new pair of feet, you'd be staring too.

And when said feet are ridiculously large and covered with curly blond hair, well, it's a little hard _not_ to be distracted.

John sighed and shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants—actually a lot more comfortable than the jeans or BDUs that he was accustomed to—and looked over at the large winged reptilian walking next to him.

Sherlock was dressed in his usual way—that is, as dressed as dragon _could_ be. John still hadn't figured out where on earth he had been able to find a scarf that size.

Sherlock angled one of his brightly glowing eyes down on John. "Still sulking?" he asked, his amusement with the situation obviously not spent.

John glared up at him. "No," he said touchily. "I never _was_ sulking, Sherlock."

"John, you have been acting like a petulant child for the past few days." Sherlock was clearly restraining a laugh.

"Says the one who took my gun and shot holes in the wall because he was_ bored,_" John answered.

Sherlock shrugged, resulting in a gargantuan stumble that John did his best not to laugh at. The grin couldn't be helped, though.

John looked around at the crowd passing them by. Funny, nobody was giving them any looks. He snorted.

_A hobbit and a dragon walking down a London street. Of course nobody's going to look._

"You know, being a dragon is quite enjoyable, John," Sherlock remarked lightly. "The ability to breathe fire, flight of course, and many dragons are said to have magical capacities."

He was bragging. Rubbing it in. And it was so painfully obvious. John looked up at Sherlock.

"I'm really looking forward to getting you killed," he said.

Sherlock looked back down at him sharply. "What?"

Oh, now there was a piece of information that Sherlock Holmes shouldn't have deleted from his hard-drive brain…

John grinned wickedly.

* * *

><p>Oh dear, John, you're not going to hold this one over Sherlock's head, are you? You're supposed to be nicer than that... *shakes finger*<p>

Huzzah, the next conversation! This one is a good deal longer than the last, so I hope you don't mind _too_ very much. Well, that's all for now. See you next month!


	3. Season's Greetings

John seemed to be floating on a cloud of delicious aromas. Cookies, pie, peppermint, chocolate, and of course tea tickled at his nose.

It came as no surprise to John that Mrs. Hudson was the cook-from-dawn-'til-dusk sort of woman. It did come as a surprise, however, that she would take it upon herself to give John and Sherlock a Christmas party.

"But what about your own family?" John had asked.

"Oh, they won't miss me," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Always sort of been the odd one out, anyway." She chuckled. "Might have something to do with all that time I spend around Sherlock."

John couldn't argue with that. It was impossible to meet Sherlock Holmes and _not_ be affected by the strange man's ways.

"But we don't know anybody," John protested.

"Oh, of course you do, dear," Mrs. Hudson said sweetly. "You just don't think of them."

"…What?"

"Just leave the inviting to me, dearie, I can handle it."

"But Sherlock's a dragon!" John then exclaimed. "I'm a hobbit! Who would want to come to a Christmas party for a dragon and a hobbit?"

"Oh, lots of people, I'm sure," Mrs. Hudson answered. "Now, if you don't mind, I have some baking to do."

Throwing his hands up helplessly, John had turned away and allowed Mrs. Hudson to go back downstairs. The woman seemed to be taking of his reduced height, for he hardly seemed to be intimidating to anyone now. Half the time they thought he was a kid!

Now, all the house filled with the scent of a mistress cook and baker at work, John headed for the door as the first of the unknown guests began to knock.

DI Lestrade tripped over him coming in the door, and called him _lad._ Ms. Donovan looked at him for a moment with a deeply furrowed brow.

"The freak did this, didn't he," she said.

"Actually, no," John replied. He paused. "Well, as far as I know, anyway. You can never really tell with Sherlock."

Now that the subject had been brought up, John wondered, _Where _is_ Sherlock?_ He hadn't seen the consulting detective for a while now, and John was curious (and dreading) to know what he was up to.

Probably hiding. Sherlock didn't strike John as the type who liked to go to parties. Or to have them held in his flat. He probably considered them to be dull.

Lestrade was still staring at John. "I'm guessing this is why you haven't been taking my calls," he said at last.

John nodded. "Yeah, it had something to do with that," he said. "Sherlock's nearly bored to death after three months of this. He can't use his Blackberry _or_ commandeer my laptop."

Lestrade chuckled. "So, where is he?" he asked, pulling off his coat. "Has he been… you know, like you?"

John shrugged. "Kinda the opposite."

Lestrade looked over at him. "What do you mean by that?"

Sally Donovan let out a piercing scream.

"Oh, there's Sherlock," John said.

Lestrade's jaw dropped, and he reached for the handgun tucked underneath his jacket. John gestured wildly with his hands, shouting, "No, don't!" Donovan was still screaming, and it was a wonder she didn't faint. Mrs. Hudson came in to see what the commotion was about just as someone else started knocking on the door.

Sherlock shook his scaly head, roaring in irritation: "Will somebody _shut her up_? Dragons have sensitive hearing!"

"It talks!" Donovan stammered with horror. "The monster _talks_!" Mrs. Hudson's attempts to calm the frantic woman were in vain. Finally a commanding bark from Lestrade silenced her.

John hurried on over to the door, upon which whomever was on the other side was still knocking. He pulled it open and blinked up in surprise at the personage of Mycroft Holmes.

Now, what would he-Mrs. Hudson. John looked over at the woman, who smiled back and came up to greet Mycroft warmly. The two seemed to know each other, and rather well.

Lestrade, Donavan, Mycroft… next thing you know, the mysterious Moriarty would come walking through the door! Who _else_ had Mrs. Hudson invited to this party?

As if in answer to his question, the door downstairs opened and John's girlfriend Sarah came in. She was dressed snug and colourful, as befitting the time and season.

Suddenly John became quite aware of his hairy feet too big for shoes, and his out-of-control curls tumbling all 'round his face. He was probably caked in flour, too.

Sarah's head came up as she started up the stairs, and she froze. "…John?" she asked, staring at him. "Are you a hobbit?"

John nodded awkwardly. "Yeah."

A slow grin began to spread across Sarah's face. "And let me guess, Sherlock's a dwarf?"

"Dragon."

Sarah shook her head with a laugh. "The more I know you two, the weirder you get!"

"Trust me, where Sherlock's concerned, the feeling's mutual," John told her.

"Well, so long as no Chinese assassins are involved, I'm alright with it," Sarah decided.

"Not a Chinese assassin in sight," John replied after making a show of checking the coast.

Sarah chuckled. "Alright then," she said. She paused, sniffing, and her eyes closed with an elated expression. "Mmm, something smells delicious."

"That would be all Mrs. Hudson's doing," John said, watching her as she came up the stairs.

"Really?" Sarah asked. "Then why do I see a spot of flour on your jumper?"

John looked down and groaned in exasperation as Sarah's finger tweaked his nose. Shaking his head in amusement, John followed the laughing woman back into the flat as a saxophone wailed out the tune of _Winter Wonderland_.

* * *

><p>Merry Christmas, all! I hope you have a wonderful time of it! ^-^<p>

It's a bit of an interesting story with this one. I was feeling completely uninspired with it, until Sunday afternoon, when I scribbled it down in a massive notebook, then on Monday I typed it up on my computer, and today I edited it and threw it onto the Internet.

Typically, I don't yank my stories around in such a creatively violent manner. John and Sherlock were being stubborn with me, so they brought it down on themselves. You should know better by now, boys.


	4. Fireworks

John heeded the gonging of the bells and hummed a few obligatory notes of _Auld Lang Syne_.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," he called.

Sherlock responded by rumbling out some lyrics of the tune John had just hummed, though thankfully he didn't try to sing them. John now wondered what a singing dragon would sound like. Shaking buildings and flaming whatever would be involved, no doubt. He chuckled at the picture.

"Picturing comical situations with my present form that would be previously considered normal, John?" Sherlock asked.

John started in his chair. "How did you-"

"Please John, it's obvious."

John rolled his eyes. He then clambered out of the chair he had been sitting in and went over to the open window, through which Sherlock's scaly head could be seen. "You cold?" he asked.

Sherlock puffed out a cloud of smoke. "I have the fantastical equivalent of a furnace in my belly," he replied. "This is the first I've even been slightly chilled."

John shivered as he wrapped his heavily besweatered arms around his body, unconsciously burrowing deeper into the scarf enveloping his neck. "Can't say the same for me." He looked out past Sherlock's head, up at the sky filled with colorful explosions. He couldn't help but flinch sometimes.

"2012," he said quietly, not quite sure he could believe it. Another year? Already?

He looked over at Sherlock. "So. Got any resolutions?" he asked.

Sherlock exhaled a derisive trail of smoke. "That tradition is entirely dull, John, not to mention pointless," he said in his usual way.

"Of course it is," John replied, turning his eyes back to the fireworks and wondering yet again, why.

There was silence for a while, he breathing steam, Sherlock smoke. Then John said, "It'll be four months soon."

Sherlock glanced over at him.

"Since, you know, the change," John elaborated.

"I am aware of that, John," Sherlock said condescendingly.

"I know you are, Sherlock," John said impatiently. "You don't _have_ to be so rude about it, you know." He shook his head.

Both turned their heads as they heard someone on the stairs, and they relaxed as Mrs. Hudson came in. "Happy New Year, Sherlock, John," she said cheerfully, though quieter than usual due to the late hour. It was clear from her robed appearance that she had woken herself up just so she could give the greeting to John and Sherlock. Again John wondered at the kindness of this little old lady, and her incredibly sharp mind.

"You two going to be up much longer?" Mrs. Hudson asked, shivering as she hugged her thick dressing gown closer to her body.

"Don't think so," John said. He turned his head. "Sherlock?"

The dragon didn't reply. John shrugged over at Mrs. Hudson, and she nodded understanding. Stifling a yawn, she bid them each a last farewell and shuffled back downstairs. After she was gone, John shook his head. "Still can't get over this hearing," he said. "Think I might miss it when things go back to normal." He paused. "Well, as normal as things get around here, anyway."

Sherlock chuckled at that, an abnormally bass sound. "Normal is boring," he said.

"Oh, we can't have that, can we?" John replied, a smile twisting his lips. He turned on his stool by the window, looking up a little to see Sherlock, whose neck had stiffened and lengthened out, ears pricked forward in interest as his nostrils flared. He rose up partially from his haunches, and John could just barely see the tip of his tail twitching curiously.

John's brow furrowed in concern. "Something wrong, Sherlock?" he asked.

Sherlock's glowing eyes peered into the darkness. "Someone's here," he said.

"Trouble?" John asked, resisting the urge to poke his head out the window and look the same way Sherlock was. Soldier training had taught him you never let your enemy know you're onto them.

Sherlock gave John an amused glance. "Considering I lit the last assassin in the area on fire, I wouldn't think that anyone's going to come here for a direct confrontation."

John snickered. "Yeah, that was a good one, wasn't it?" he said. "Golem wasn't quite too keen on being smaller than somebody for once."

Sherlock's teeth bared fearsomely. "I don't take too kindly to my enemies getting away, John. Much less a second time."

"And nearly killing us both in the process."

"What is it that people say? Revenge is sweet."

Sherlock continued to watch the street intently. Though he had settled back down, his eyes were still alert and his ears swiveled about, catching the tiniest of sounds. It was funny, now that Sherlock was a dragon, it was easier to tell what he was doing.

"Are we going to do anything about him?" John asked, referring to their hidden watcher in the street.

"Not right now," Sherlock decided. "I'm too bored." He released a curling plume of smoke.

John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's offered reason. It was so… Sherlock. A yawn snuck up on the doctor, and he pulled his mobile from his pocket and checked the time. 12:15. Hardly that late, but John felt exhausted. Of course, that could have plenty to do with how little sleep he got while he was working with Sherlock Holmes.

"Well, I think I'll call it a night," John decided. He hopped off the stool and started off for his room.

Sherlock didn't respond. John shook his head and rolled his eyes upwards. Zoning out again. Typical Holmes.

"Happy New Year, Sherlock," John said one last time, and headed off to bed.

Three hours later Sherlock stirred, blinking as though woken from a dream, and said, "Goodnight, John." He looked into the window, and blinked in befuddled confusion at the empty flat. Sherlock's brow furrowed, and he looked up at the sky now devoid of fireworks.

"He was just there," he said.

* * *

><p>Well, here we are, the ConJoHo of January! (yeah, that's the official abbreviation for it now. What can I say? Well, it's fun to say) Sorry for all the lateness. The weather was behavin' pretty strange up here in Washington. I mean, ice storms? So, we haven't had Internet (power, yes, Internet, no. Turns out something was wrong with the relay here) for a week and some.<p>

Actually, it wasn't until I heard my mom say the date starting with a _twenty_ that I realized how late it was. So, in a great panic and flurry, I typed this is up and edited and I can only hope that it's all in readable English. ;) Also, I love the fact that besweatered is now a verb. Originally, it was just sweatered, but at my mom's suggestion I turned it into besweatered. Much better, I think.


	5. Guardian

It was late into the night. In fact, it was so late it was several hours into the next day. John, thoroughly exhausted from the past events, had finally made it home to 221b after weeks away.

He paid and thanked the taxicab driver, wincing as he caught the tired slur to his words. He didn't like to show weakness when he was around others, especially considering how small he was. He unloaded his two bags and headed for the door, turning his head only slightly as the cab's tires squealed as they grabbed the pavement and launched the vehicle forward.

John rummaged through his pockets in search of the right key, feeling barely half-awake. Mrs. Hudson had given him a call to let him know Sherlock was sleeping—_imagine that!_ John had thought—so John was trying to be as quiet as possible. This for a hobbit who had crossed twenty different time zones for a bazillion different emergencies in a handful of weeks. Mycroft did love to make people run around, but even this was a little sadistic for him.

John unlocked the door and pushed it open, picking up his bags and setting them down on the other side of the threshold. He turned to close the door again but his eye was caught by a strange man walking down the street. He had the feeling that he was headed for 221b.

It wasn't that the stranger looked weird or freaky. There was just… something about him, something different. John had the distinct feeling that he was very dangerous, and though he was suspicious, he didn't feel afraid.

The stranger was clad in a unique combination of black and silver clothing, complimenting his slender physique perfectly. His long silver hair, pulled back, fell behind his shoulders in a long ponytail.

John found himself frozen, entranced by the vision. The man seemed inhuman in his grace. His movements were lithe and supple, more fluid than a predator cat's.

The stranger saw John and lifted an arm in greeting. "Hail, Halfling," he said, voice fair and clear. "It has been long since one of your kind has been seen." He stopped walking, standing at the edge of the skinny path leading into 221b. "And even longer since one of that other kind," he continued, face darkening. "We have heard that Smaug has returned."

John looked at the stranger in surprise. i_How could he know about that?/i_ "But… no. Sherlock's just a dragon, he just looks like Smaug. He's not i_actually/i_ Smaug, no more than I am actually Bilbo Baggins!"

The stranger shook his head, eyes doubtful. "I pray that you are right, John Watson. But I ask you this: has this Sherlock Holmes whom you have so quickly befriended behaved differently of late?"

John could only stare at the stranger as dread unfurled its bands and wrapped them around his gut, squeezing as though to kill him. Sherlock i_had/i_ been behaving differently, only subtly so, but that didn't mean he was i_Smaug/i_, the terrible creature who had devoured the dwarfs and taken the Lonely Mountain for himself and all the treasures within.

"Who are you?" John asked the stranger, looking at him suspiciously.

The stranger only looked at him, maintaining his shroud of mystery. "One who wanders," he replied. "One who guards. Be wary in this friendship you hold, John Watson. Before this journey ends, Sherlock Holmes will not be what you thought he was before."

John could hardly breathe for the terror strangling his lungs. He shivered, and it wasn't because of the cold February air. "Why do you say that?" he demanded. "How can you possibly know?"

"He is a dragon, Dr. Watson. He is Smaug, and Smaug is a sly creature, vain and cruel. Even as a human Sherlock Holmes possessed these traits. Now that he is full-blooded dragon, it is only a matter of time before he hearkens to the cry of the wyrm's nature. His transformation into the beast puts everyone at a greater risk."

The stranger's bearing was straight and regal, his every cell seemed to bristle with urgency. "Consider this to be a cautioning, John Watson. Sherlock Holmes is not to be trusted. You two are more like the fables you portray than you know."

"How do you know all this?" John asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously. "Were i_you/i_ the one spying on us New Year's Day?"

The stranger's expression gave nothing away. "We have been watching you, Dr. Watson, but we are not the only ones. Others do not watch with such friendly eyes as us."

John did not like the sound of that. They weren't the only ones watching? And the others were supposedly hostile? He opened his mouth to ask another question.

The stranger looked up at the sky, eyes perusing the stars that had for once come out from behind their cloudy veil. "It is time for me to leave," he said. "There are many tasks and few to do them. Fare thee well, John Watson, and beware the dragon you so foolishly choose to trust."

He turned and walked away, and as his distance grew he raised his voice in a high, clear note, and others followed. The tongue in which he sang was strange and fair, and as John listened he was filled with a depthless sorrow, knowing that whatever the words rising from the stranger's lips were words of lament.

He was the strange man until he could see him no longer, and even then his sound lingered. John slowly closed the door and leaned up against it, and when he touched his hand to his face he realized that he had been weeping.

"Oh John, what's happening to you?" he whispered, and was filled with the worst feeling of dread.

* * *

><p>What's this! Drama! I honestly don't know where this is going to go. Will it be in the background? Will it be totally ignored? Will it pop in every odd while? Will the stranger be right about Sherlock? Who knows.<p>

Is it bad when even the writer doesn't know what's going to happen next? Probably.

So here I am, screeching in at the very last day of February… sorry guys. This is just really, really ridiculous. I was feeling like zip creativity and February has just been a crazy month for me (John's having a hectic past few weeks is a reference to that), and this got pushed back. I actually didn't start writing this until yesterday!

BUT. It is here. It's still February. Leap years are wonderful things. And _hopefully_, next month the ConJoHo will be coming along MUCH sooner.


	6. Tea and Cakes

John poured two cups of tea for himself and Sarah up to the brim, sniffing at the curling steam appreciatively. Walking slowly, he went over to where Sarah was sitting on the couch and handed her teacup to her.

She took it, her fingers curling around its shape, and breathed in the tea's aroma. Her closed eyes and soft "mmm" communicated total contentment.

Carefully balancing his own teacup, John climbed up onto the couch and sat on the other end so he wouldn't have to crane his neck up so high to see Sarah's face.

"I must say," Sarah said as she reached over and gently fondled John's hair, "I'm going to miss these curls when this is over. They quite suit you." She smiled teasingly, eyes sparkling. "You look cute."

_Which is precisely the problem,_ John thought to himself as he chuckled at Sarah's antics. She was so normal, probably the only normal thing in John's crazy, hectic life, and he loved her for it.

"And you never used to cook," Sarah continued. "Now look! You've made this lovely tea, and a whole spread of _delicious_ cakes. I just can't stop eating them." So saying, she grabbed another one.

John smiled slightly, taking a tentative sip from his full teacup. "Yeah, I guess cooking is a side-effect of the hobbit thing."

"It's a good side-effect," Sarah assured him. "They're not usually this tasty."

John sipped his tea for a moment, then set his cup down in his lap.

"Sarah," he said, "are you okay with me being a hobbit? Not every girl has to say that Bilbo Baggins is their boyfriend."

Sarah smiled. "Well, you may look like Bilbo Baggins," she said, "but you are most definitely John Watson."

"I don't know, lately I find myself acting more hobbit than human," John said doubtfully. "It's a little unnerving. I mean, look at this." He gestured to the table. "I've never touched a cookbook in my life, yet somehow I manage to whip this up without asking even Mrs. Hudson for help."

Sarah considered this point carefully. "It's a little strange, having a boyfriend who's three feet tall," she admitted.

"Hey, I'm not _that_ short!" John protested.

Sarah chuckled at his outburst. "To be honest, I don't know how this will work for us," she confessed. "But we know this isn't permanent, right?"

"Yeah, just until the movie comes out. That was the agreement."

"Well then, we'll just make the best of it until then."

"Sarah, nine months is a long time. This is the first we've seen each other since Christmas, and it's March now."

"Yeah, that is true." Sarah set her teacup aside, putting it gently down on the table as she frowned. "But… it's not like it's forever, though, is it?"

John was silent. Sarah's eyes grew wide, and she stared over at him. "Is it?"

"No, no," John said quickly. "It's not permanent. _That_ much I know." _I think._

They drifted into a pensive silence, each with their own less-than-happy thoughts. Sarah looked back over at him.

"Do you know what?" she asked.

John looked back at her, slowly shaking his head. "No. What?"

"You may be small, John," Sarah said, "but your face is not too small to kiss."

And she leaned over and did just that.

John blinked up at her in surprise for a moment. "Well, thank heavens for that," he said.

Sarah giggled.

* * *

><p>Hey, it's not the end of the month! Hurrah for improvements! XD<p>

I wanted to do something with John and Sarah, because as far as ConJoHo is concerned, they are still together. That is something I will not change. She stayed with John after the whole Chinese assassins thing, and then suddenly they made her disappear without trace nor cause. I'm not following suit.

Plus they're just cute together. Whenever Sherlock isn't butting in and bringing unnecessary amounts of drama and peril. *eyeroll*


	7. Powerout

John reached up to flick the light switch and looked around in puzzlement when nothing happened. He flicked it again, but still the light did not come on.

Then John noticed a distinct lack of the sound of a running refrigerator. He sighed.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," he grumbled, and he reached into his pocket to pull out his phone. By its light he made his way downstairs to the power panel.

Nothing was off. 221b had lost power.

_This can't be happening._ John groaned and thunked his head against the wall. It was late, he had already been walking around outside for a good hour (_thank_ you, Mycroft), he was hungry and he was cold.

No electricity meant no warm food, and no heat. Sarah was out of town, so he couldn't stay at her place. This was going to be miserable.

Then John heard the familiar beat of leathery wings, and he was struck by an idea.

"Sherlock," he called as he bounded up the stairs, "I need your breath."

Said breath was released in a snort of bemusement and possible indignation.

Later, John leaned up against Sherlock's leg, bundled up in layers of sweaters, scarves, and blankets. The dragon had turned out to be a regular furnace and both he and Mrs. Hudson were grateful for his presence.

Mrs. Hudson was snuggled up to Sherlock's expansive belly, secure and warm. She was obviously in the best spot, wrapped in the softest and coziest blankets they possessed.

"Warm enough?" Sherlock inquired, looking over in disinterest.

"Yes, thank you, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson replied, peeping up from beneath her hood of woolen scarves. "These scales of yours are lovely warm."

"Mm," Sherlock said, sounding—as he usually did—bored.

Mrs. Hudson looked cozy and comfortable, and John knew it wouldn't be long before she dropped off to sleep. He couldn't say the same for himself—sitting with his back up against Sherlock's right hind leg, he wasn't getting near as much warmth. But there was no way he was going to snuggle up against Sherlock's _belly_, nuh-uh. That was just too weird. People thought he and Sherlock were gay already, and he didn't feel like enforcing the theory.

Eventually John nodded off. Sherlock looked down at him, surprised that he didn't snore. John had always struck him as the snoring type.

Surely training didn't teach you how to not snore. That would just be ridiculous.

Sherlock grimaced, trying not to twitch and wake Mrs. Hudson. Unbeknownst to all, Sherlock had a ticklish spot on his right hind leg, and John was leaning against it with a scratchy wool blanket. Every time he breathed, it moved.

His face going through a fearsome set of expressions, Sherlock carefully lifted John with his tail and set him down next to Mrs. Hudson. It simply didn't make sense to sit out in the cold when a warmer location was immediately available.

John stirred in his sleep, instinctively snuggling up to the heat of Sherlock's belly. The sight was so childlike that Sherlock smiled in amusement.

He curled himself around his two charges like a cat, using a wing as an umbrella when it started to rain exactly when he had expected it to.

Mrs. Hudson and John were completely hidden from sight, and Sherlock's head remained erect and alert for a long time, hours in fact, before he set it down and allowed himself to rest.

Sherlock's eyes slowly closed and his breathing deepened in slumber. He never used to sleep before. Perhaps it was a dragon thing.

* * *

><p>And here's a <em>second<em> conversation for March! I felt so bad about scraping in the Conversation for last month at the very last second, I decided to do two this month. Probably just a one-time thing, unless the guilt monkey starts chewing on my shoulder again.

This scenario would not leave me alone. I had to write it. Do London houses ever lose electricity, or is there a magical power-source that keeps everything running all the time? I dunno, could be. As for Sherlock being secretly ticklish… the thought amused me, and that kind of is the whole point of this story.

Yes, John woke up the next morning and immediately started freaking out. Sherlock didn't get what his issue was: he was getting cold, so he moved him to a warmer location. Mrs. Hudson quietly giggled with Sarah in the background.

The next Conversation is going to be fun, I'll tell you that much. Actually, it was kind of prompted. (Yes, this actually can happen) Well, off I go now! Au revoir!


	8. Hay Fever

John leaped several feet upwards as a tremendous noise shook the air and a torrent of flame rushed past the window.

"_What was that?_" he yelped.

"Ugh," said Sherlock.

"I don't know," DI Lestrade said. He was there trying to convince John to convince Sherlock to investigate a case of his.

"Ugh," said Sherlock again.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" John called. He went over to the window and peered out. He hadn't seen Sherlock since the night before last, and who knew what the dragon had been up to.

"Ugh," said Sherlock for the third time, and John finally understood why.

The sight before him was so pathetic, it was almost funny. John was torn between wanting to cry with laughter and wanting to be aching with sympathy.

The doleful dragon outside 221b was barely recognizable to be Sherlock Holmes. His eyes were crusty and dull, his nose was dripping mucus, and his whole stature was drooped. Sherlock was sick.

"What happened?" John asked.

Sherlock started to reply (he was probably just going to say "ugh" again), but was caught by a sneeze and sent a comet of flame and who knew what else careening past John's head.

Sherlock growled irritably, shaking his head, and tried to speak again. "Ha-ha-" No use. He just ended up sneezing again.

"Hay fever?" John queried.

"We're in London," Lestrade scoffed. "Who has hay fever in _London?_"

"I don't know, it was just a _guess_," John said as he shot an offended glare Lestrade's way.

"Is it even the season for hay fever right now?" Lestrade asked.

"Well, how should I know?"

"You're a doctor, aren't you?"

"I tend to deal with things a little more serious than allergies. And one doesn't really get hay fever in the middle of a desert."

"What is going on?" a familiar voice wondered, and John leaned back out the window to spot Mrs. Hudson coming out of 221b. She stared up at Sherlock and uttered a soft "oh" in his sympathy.

"Oh dear, it looks like your allergy carried over into your dragon body," she said.

Sherlock nodded miserably and sneezed. John couldn't be sure, but the dragon's drooping lips gave the distinct impression he was pouting. Well, he hadn't known Sherlock to be above it. It's just that he usually only did it when Mycroft was around.

Sherlock was seized by another great fit of sneezing and he sent smoke, fire and dragon boogers flying in all directions.

"My, this could get dangerous," Mrs. Hudson remarked lightly.

"What's Sherlock allergic to, anyway?" John called down to her.

"We're not sure, we've never managed to pinpoint it down," Mrs. Hudson replied. "Well, we do know it's a plant, anyway. A flower, probably."

John heard Lestrade snicker behind him. "Sherlock Holmes, allergic to flowers?"

John couldn't argue the thought was amusing. Sherlock, unraveller of the world's most complex puzzles, master of deduction and reasoning, terribly allergic to… daisies. Or pansies. Or dandelions.

John decided to stop his train of thought right now, before he started chuckling out loud.

"Ugh," said Sherlock yet again. It was the fourth time now.

Lestrade finally joined John by the window to peer out. A funny smile appeared on his face. "Memories to treasure, eh, Dr. Watson?"

"I wouldn't say _treasure_… more like hoot over."

They cackled. Mrs. Hudson shook her head at them and muttered something under her breath, but she herself couldn't hold in a slight smile. She softened up quickly, however, upon seeing how truly dejected Sherlock was.

Looking up at him, she said, "I don't think it's ever been quite this bad before."

Sherlock nodded. "Drah-dragons have…_tchoo!_ Kee-keener senses than… _ha-ha…_ humans do." He released a gigantic sneeze.

"Oh, you poor thing. Can you manage to fly 'round to the back? I'll see what I can do for you there."

Sherlock nodded and struggled to take to the air, accidentally dragging his tail across the roof in the process. John more than half-expected him to come crashing through.

Mrs. Hudson gestured to him. "John, will you come help?"

John nodded. Followed by Lestrade, he hopped down the stairs (well, Lestrade didn't hop, of course) and headed out back. Of course Mrs. Hudson was there already, and Sherlock landed heavily with an inelegance that surprised John. He hadn't seen Sherlock this clumsy since he had first started flying, and even then…

Sherlock didn't even bother getting up after flopping lazily onto his side, and he groaned with a mixture of misery and frustration. He sneezed, and John was certain the buildings shook.

"It's getting worse," Sherlock said, and sneezed again.

"Well, have you tried blowing your nose?" Mrs. Hudson suggested.

Sherlock glared at her.

"Oh, sorry. Forgot they don't make tissues in dragon sizes."

Lestrade stepped up beside John. "Hey, he's really looking bad, isn't he?" he said to John.

John studied Sherlock. "Looking, yeah," he agreed. "He'll be alright in a week or so."

"You sure about that? I mean, he's a dragon and all…"

"Some things are universal, Detective Inspector." Glancing at the increasing listlessness of Sherlock, John ushered Lestrade to the front door. "I think you had better go now. It doesn't help to be stressed while you're sick."

"Stressed?" Lestrade looked offended.

"Lestrade, you know just as well as I do that Sherlock doesn't really like people," John said. "So, it would be best if he had less people to be irritable with."

Lestrade paused. "He's been sick before, hasn't he?" he asked. "Before all this change stuff?"

John nodded. "Yeah."

Lestrade looked at him for a moment. "It was ugly, wasn't it."

"Everyone's cranky when they're sick."

"And Sherlock's already cranky when he isn't. Can't say I envy your position, Doctor."

John stared at him for a while, getting an inkling of why people bothered Sherlock so much. "Are you going now?"

"Yes. Yes I am." Lestrade finally turned and went out the door.

John turned around and tilted his head up to somewhat face Mrs. Hudson.

"He wasn't this big last time," he said.

"Yes, and you weren't this small," she replied.

They both shared _well, nothing for it_ looks and spun around Sherlock began another one of his sneezing infernos.

Finally, evening came (and John already knew that Sherlock would sleep-he had too little energy to do otherwise) and Mrs. Hudson and John staggered back into 221b and made a beeline for their beds.

Before going back to his room and collapsing into sleep, John went over to the window that was always open now and leaned out.

Sherlock shifted on the pavement below, trying to find a permanently comfortable position. He was loosely covered by a patchwork of blankets, and a few large pots of steaming tea were nearby his head. His tongue snaked out and lapped up some of the hot liquid.

Sherlock's allergy had exposed him to the cold as well. Not cold as in weather, but cold as in the bug. You know the one. The dragon would probably be fine within a week or two, but after this first day John would be very glad when Sherlock was back to his usual, immensely bored self.

"Call me if you need anything," he told Sherlock.

"Why would I possibly need you?" Sherlock mumbled, but the size of his vocal chords ensured that John could hear him perfectly.

Suddenly Sherlock's mouth froze in its partially-opened position, then stretched wider and wider.

"Ah-ah-ah….TCHOOO!"

John launched himself away from the window as flames hit the brickwork above his head and dissipated. For some reason, as he peeked back over the edge of the window, he was laughing. Sherlock scowled at him for a moment, but soon the great dragon was giggling as well.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said in a sudden and strange show of cordiality.

"Goodnight, Sherlock," John replied.

Sherlock now ignored him as he drank some more tea and allowed his long neck and the mind palace it carried thud to the ground. John watched him for the ten minutes it took Sherlock to fall asleep.

With a light smile, he turned and walked away from the window. Since he had bothered to put on pajamas, he might as well get into bed. Sleep was too rare a commodity to take for granted, anyway.

* * *

><p>Balrog Herder, this is for you. I hope you liked it. It was supposed to just be a sneezing Sherlock, but it seems he ended up with a cold as well. Hrm.<p>

Making more expanded words. First it was besweatered, now it's unraveller. I should start writing my own advanced dictionary.

Having most of Sherlock's dialogue consist of "Ugh" was particularly fun. I felt just a little sadistic and slightly evil, stealing away Sherlock's ability to play Mr. Punch Line. "HAHA! I HAVE THE POWER! WHAT NOW?"

He'll probably get me back for it someday.

Why is this conversation called "Hay Fever" when no one has it? I don't know. It seemed appropriate at the time.

See you in May! ^.^


	9. Flick

The whole back row of the theatre was silent and stock-still. John wasn't sure he could move if he tried. John wasn't sure he could _think_ if he tried.

Lestrade was the first to speak, uttering an oddly high-pitched and cracked, "_Wow._"

John jerked his head slightly. Sally Donovan was blinking at the now-blank theatre screen, and Molly Hooper hadn't quite mustered the strength yet to lift her jaw back up to its proper location. Mycroft's eyebrows had disappeared about halfway through the movie, and from the looks of it they were still missing. Mrs. Hudson seemed delighted with the refreshing of ancient nostalgia. Sherlock was the only one who looked befuddled, but for once he actually wasn't saying anything.

"That was amazing," Donovan whispered.

"Amazing," Anderson (whom Sherlock had forced to sit in a different row) echoed.

"I don't know what to do with myself now," Molly admitted, her voice more than tinged with awe.

"I don't know what to do with the London Police Department now," Lestrade replied. He, like everyone else, was still staring ahead vacantly.

John swallowed, and managed to force out some words of his own: "The Avengers."

Everyone nodded, as though John had summed it all up. "The Avengers."

The hush was respectful and awed. Then Sherlock craned his neck around to look at John, his scaly brow deeply furrowed. "I don't understand," he said. "How is Hawkeye like Legolas? The two hold no physical nor psychological similarities."

The entire row groaned. Trust Sherlock to ruin the moment.

* * *

><p>This isn't an "official" ConJoHo, but it popped into my head, and so I wrote it. I regret nothing.<p>

So, I've seen _The Avengers._ My reaction was basically what I just wrote: I couldn't speak (too mindblown), I couldn't think (too mindblown), and I didn't know what to do with myself (too mindblown). I don't recall that ever happening with a movie, certainly not on the level of _The Avengers_. It's a really good film, guys.

I'll be putting up the proper ConJoHo for May within the next couple weeks.


	10. Mother's Day

She set the last of the dishes in the washer and pushed the door closed. A beep signaled the starting of the machine, and after rolling her sleeves back up her arms she set to tackling the counters.

Not the ideal nor stereotypical way to spend Mother's Day, but Mrs. Holmes had never been one to go about things the usual way. Besides, she only ever heard from one of her sons, and his idea of communication was the sporadic card or two, containing the typical things cards do. Nothing thoughtful or truly sentimental. Mrs. Holmes hadn't seen a homemade gift card since her oldest son was six.

This year's Mother's Day card was already sitting on the counter. She hadn't bothered reading it yet, she already knew what it would say.

A knock came at the door while she was washing her hands.

"Just a minute," she called, shaking droplets from her fingers. She dried her hands on a towel as she walked to the front door. She turned the handle, and when the door swung open she blinked at the pair in front of her.

Of the two forms, one was obviously her firstborn son, Mycroft. She noted with surprise that he still had the umbrella she had given him years ago for his birthday. Surely he would have gotten a new one by now. Behind Mycroft was… well, a dragon. And the dragon's eyes looked very familiar to Mrs. Holmes.

She shook her had. "Sherlock, what sort of nonsense have you gotten yourself into this time?"

Who would have thought a dragon could look so sheepish.

"It, ehm… it's a long story," Mycroft said awkwardly. "And I had nothing to do with it."

"Glad to see you're solidly backing me on this, Mycroft," Sherlock muttered.

Mrs. Holmes shook her head again. They had been gone for a long time, but her boys were still the same. It must be true, the statement that some things never changed. She looked up at Sherlock, craning her neck up even further than she used to.

"Well, there is no way you're going to fit into the house, young dragon," she said.

Her youngest son seemed humored. "You don't say."

"So, what are you two here for?" Mrs. Holmes asked. "It can't be a holiday: you never come on Christmas, Easter, any of the other family gatherings…"

"We… we…." Her sons exchanged glances, each of them hesitant.

"We came to say Happy Mother's Day!" Sherlock blurted out in a tone Mrs. Holmes hadn't heard since he was a child. "So… Happy Mother's Day, Mum."

Mycroft whipped his other hand out from behind him. "We brought flowers," he said proudly. "And Sherlock _tried_ to sign the card. He sort of sneezed on it, though, and…" he gestured vaguely "_poof._"

"Ah, so the allergy stills bothers you, Sherlock."

"It's gotten worse, actually. Result of the dragon thing."

"Your draconic state isn't permanent, is it?"

"No."

"Oh. I could've had use of a dragon around here." Suddenly she stopped, staring at her two sons. She hadn't seen them for years, and here they were, standing right in front of her. Holding flowers, and not holding their accidentally incinerated card. All for her. When was the last time they had done something for her? Actually stopped squabbling long enough to do something together?

"Mycroft, there's a kettle steeping in the dining room, you know where it is," she said. "Pour it into the soup pot and add more hot water, unless Sherlock for some reason no longer likes his tea. Sherlock, why don't you head around back and set your head by the big windows. That way we can talk with each other easier."

Mycroft strode past her and Sherlock spread his wings to fly over the row houses.

"Mycroft? Sherlock?"

Both her sons paused and looked to her.

"Thank you. Thank you very much." She felt tears brimming up, and she desperately tried to push them down. She knew her sons didn't care for people who cried. "I haven't seen either of you in a long time, and… this is very nice." Too late: the first tears managed to spill. Now would come the scorn.

But Mycroft's face softened. Sherlock's wings slowly lowered. Her elder son stepped closer to her, actually placing a hand on her shoulder, and her younger stretched out his long neck until his head nuzzled her, his snout breathing hot air into her face.

Mrs. Holmes had never received a greater shock in her life.

"Why… why are you doing this?" she whispered.

Sherlock's eyes gazed down at her, actually holding an amount of affection. "It's Mother's Day," he said.

Mycroft's smile communicated gentle amusement. "And the fact that you didn't murder us as children gives an extraordinary testament to your virtue."

Mrs. Holmes laughed. It was something she hadn't done in a long time. Sherlock smiled, and it was a genuinely happy thing.

"Happy Mother's Day, Mum," he said.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Holmes said disbelievingly, "you haven't said that to me since you were eight."

"Perhaps it's time I started again."

"Perhaps it's time we _both_ started again," Mycroft added.

Mrs. Holmes made no attempt to move, nestled in the midst of the most peculiar embrace. Two sons, one a human and the other a dragon, but now each of them with a heart.

A ridiculously average thought came into her head.

_Best. Mother's Day. Ever._

* * *

><p>Fluff! Lovely fluff! Lovely out-of-character fluff! All for you, mothers! ^.^ Happy Mother's Day!<p>

A second special, unofficial thing for ConJoHo this month. These are starting to happen with startling frequency. This one wasn't planned at all—the idea hit me this morning, I scribbled some of it on a paper, spent a marvelous day with my best friend and older sister and SO many more, then sat down at 10:00pm, typed it up, finished it off, edited it, and added some polish. Oh so fancy! :)

(Also, where's John? I have no idea. Maybe if I'm still doing this when next Mother's Day rolls around, I'll do something with him)

I promise, the next one will be the proper ConJoHo for this month. Maybe. If random inspiration doesn't strike again in the meantime.

…well, my distraction may be somewhat the fault of The Avengers consuming my brain. Seriously, that movie. That movie. Better stop now before I lose coherence.

Anyway, better stop typing so I can get this up before Mother's Day is over! Happy-happy-happy-superhappy Mother's Day! You moms ROOOOOOOOCK. Seriously!

~Andra


	11. Sounds

John looked around himself. How strange, he thought, to be able to leave all of London's familiar noise and clatter in less than an hour. Having a rather large compatriot who could fly came in handy sometimes.

John couldn't say he really _liked_ the outdoors: he was more of a city boy at heart. Every once in a while however, he liked to go away from London, breathe some clearer air, enjoy a few moments of calm.

Also he was curious to test just how keen his sense of hearing was. He didn't have a massive dragon to distract, as Sherlock had left immediately after dropping John off. He had said he would be back within two hours, but John wasn't sure exactly how timely the dragon would be.

John crept into the forest, eyes darting about. According to Sherlock, the closest sign of human civilization—a lone road—was a good six kilometers away. The wild land, veiled by trees, was quiet in a way that London could never compare to. But in John's ears the forest was alive with sound. Birds' feathers ruffling against each other. The splash of a round dew drop falling from one leaf to another. Unseen creatures calling to each other in their high, quick-speaking voices.

John went in about twenty meters. Though he didn't go in very deep, the forest quickly grew shadowed. In this time of spring, the under- and overgrowth was thick.

Some instinct came alive in John, a feeling he hadn't known he had, a peculiar love of this wild and hush. He explored quietly, always staying within sight of the band of light that indicated the edge of the wood.

After a while he came upon a recently fallen log, and a touch of his fingers confirmed that it wasn't too wet. He climbed up and sat himself down, swinging the average-sized pack he had brought with him to a place beside him. Balanced securely, he leaned over and opened the pack, pulling out one sandwich of several. The lunch he had brought was much more amply sized than he could have eaten before, but he _was_ a hobbit now.

He sat on his log, contentedly eating his sandwich. He studied the vibrant greens of the forest's new growth, dimmed some by the insignificant sunlight. Light occasionally filtered through the treetops, painting visible rays for the dust mites to dance in. Forest noise echoed between the trees, and not a hint of manmade sound could be heard.

There was music, John realized, floating in the air. Birdsong, the same as he had always heard before, but he had thought it was random and chaotic then, noisy little birds cheeping about their territory.

Here though, it weaved together in a beautifully simple symphony that seemed to go in pace with John's slow breathing. It was beautiful noise. There had yet to be a record that could match it.

What strange thoughts for someone who wasn't a nature-lover.

The place was so peaceful and still, and though the sun's rays were hardly dazzling, the day was pleasantly warm. John nibbled away at the rest of his lunch, eventually ending up lying flat on his back on the fallen log, eyes half-closed as he listened to both the clear and muted sounds of the wood.

He might have dozed off. At least his eyes closed. But still his ears continued to drink in sounds, sounds John never would have been able to hear before. And after this was all over, he might never hear them again.

His rest was disturbed by the familiar beat of Sherlock's wings. It was strange how much he listened for those now.

"How did your test go?" Sherlock inquired disinterestedly as John broke free of the forest's edge.

"Superb," John told him. "I can hear a twig snap twenty meters off."

"And your nap?"

John started. "What makes—"

"Obvious."

John's lips curled upwards. "In other words, you saw the moss tangled in my hair."

"I did say it was obvious, didn't I?"

John shook his head. Of course Sherlock would have the last word. John supposed it would never be any other way. He scrambled up onto Sherlock's neck and snatched the dark blue scarf looped between two spines.

"Where _did_ you find this scarf, anyway?" John wondered.

"An aspiring world-record achiever," Sherlock answered. "Not that anyone would really _care_ about the largest handmade scarf in the world, but they were willing to donate."

Sherlock spread his wings as far apart as they could go and violently launched himself off the ground, nearly leaving John behind. The dragon didn't seem to care at all for running starts, even when there was plenty of room.

Sherlock banked, and a chill wind shrieked past John's ears as they pointed towards London.

* * *

><p>Spring is in the air (we actually have had <em>tons<em> of sunshine in Washington lately, it's unbelievable!), so I thought I'd get John outside for a little while. I'm not sure that he cares for the outdoors at all—in fact he probably doesn't—but bah, I'm doing it anyway. And it is a great place to test out your hearing.

Oh my gosh. Guys, when the next Conversation rolls in we'll have only half a year to wait until The Hobbit! Yaaaaaaay! *excited hopping*


	12. Sleeping In

John didn't know when it was that he woke up. He didn't check the clock. And he didn't so much wake up as enter a state of semiconsciousness. He became vaguely aware of his surroundings and moved around some, but he kept his eyelids firmly slammed.

Finally he decided he might as well get up, he had surely been sleeping in for a while. Cracking a yawn and shaking the curls out of his face, he looked over at the clock.

His expression of disbelief quickly turned into a scowl. 7am? _7am?_ That was only an hour after he usually got up, and last night he didn't fall asleep until 1am! Saturday was the _one day_ John could sleep in, and here he was, waking up at 7am? Nuh uh.

John glared at the clock distastefully and burrowed back underneath his blankets, trying to go back to sleep. After half an hour of shallow dozing, John gave up. Clearly he wasn't going to get anymore sleep today. On _Saturday._

He still couldn't get over the ludicrousness of it.

He fought his way out of the sheets (really, this bed was far too big for a hobbit), and as it was a mite nippy, he pulled on his dressing gown over his pajamas. June started in less than a week, and it was still awfully cold in the mornings. Welcome to England. Slippers weren't necessary, of course. His feet never seemed to get cold.

Pulling the dressing gown around his shoulders, John went into 221b's kitchen, hoping his search for caffeine would prove fruitful. As the water slowly began to heat up, John snooped around for a cup, using his stepladder to climb on top of the counters so he could look inside the cupboards. He found one, pushed to the very back, and he almost had to scale the surface of the cupboard to reach it.

Finally the craved-for coffee dripped into his cup, and John contentedly sipped. He opened the refrigerator and took out a recently purchased box of raspberry cinnamon rolls. It wasn't until his hobbity-ness had awoken a powerful love for food that the refrigerator was regularly stocked with fresh food, and unbelievably enough the edible treats actually outnumbered the inedible human body parts.

Mrs. Hudson seemed happy to be relieved of fridge-cleaning duty, but she also seemed to know that it wouldn't be permanent. Once things returned to normal, the fridge would probably go back to thumbs, heads and rotten tomatoes.

John shuddered. The thought was abhorring, and also not ideal for a hobbit about to eat his breakfast.

Then came the hunt for a suitable plate, and upon it John placed two large rolls. Into the microwave it went, and John sniffed happily as the smells of raspberry cinnamon rolls released into the air. One simply could not go wrong with raspberry cinnamon rolls.

They finished heating and John set a fork on top of the plate as he grabbed both that and his coffee cup. Under his arm he tucked a large butcher paper-wrapped package, and then carefully made his way downstairs and out the back.

Sherlock was awake, of course, peeling oranges. Somehow he had figured it out (and had been ridiculously proud of it), and now most mornings the dragon could be found peeling and eating oranges for breakfast.

"Brought you the meat you asked for," John said, and lifted his arm as Sherlock carefully took the package with a set of enormous claws. He ate the thing just as it was: while Sherlock was extremely picky about orange peels, he didn't at all mind the flavor of butcher paper and string. John had worried that Sherlock would choke on the string, but then Sherlock had pointed out that his throat was too large for something to block it.

"It's warm outside," John remarked, feeling surprised. While it was freezing in the house, out here it was cozy. A look up at the sky showed remarkable lack of clouds. "Looks like we're in for a nice day."

Sherlock glanced upward, then went back to peeling his oranges. John did not understand his fascination with them.

"You may want to start preparations, John," Sherlock said without looking over at him. "Sarah is expecting you this afternoon, and it is after eight already."

John shook his head with a chuckle, not even bothering to ask how Sherlock knew that. He already knew what the consulting detective's answer would be: _Obvious._

"I've got time for breakfast, Sherlock," he said, sitting down in the chair that had been placed outside.

Sherlock angled an eye down at John's meal. "What is that?" he asked.

John forked a small piece of roll away from the rest. "Raspberry cinnamon roll," he told Sherlock. He put it in his mouth, and his eyes shot wide as he rolled it around. "Oh, oh my. This is amazing!"

Sherlock shook his head with a draconic snort. He frowned at the orange he accidentally scorched, and then it was John who was laughing. He quickly hid his grin behind his coffee cup. Breakfast went on in a relaxed manner, the way Saturday breakfasts usually did, and Sherlock started complaining that Mycroft was asking for his skills yesterday. John took that as his cue to leave, and after a shower and a change into some day clothes, he was off to Sarah's.

Sherlock's head appeared from the above the house. "John?"

"Yes, Sherlock?" John paused with one foot in the cab.

Sherlock hesitated. "Enjoy yourself. With Sarah."

Was Sherlock actually being nice? Good Lord, Mycroft must've slipped something into his oranges. "Uh… Thanks, Sherlock."

Sherlock quickly disappeared, as though embarrassed by his moment of humanity. John got the rest of the way into the cab and told the driver where he wanted to go.

* * *

><p>For the most part, this was my morning. And raspberry cinnamon rolls are amazing. Really amazing. I am forever spoiled. *regrets nothing* Of course, there wasn't a dragon sitting in my backyard peeling oranges. And since I'm fifteen, I am not allowed to start on coffee yet. My parents will let me steal sips sometimes, though. Mm, love the flavor.<p>

And what _is_ it that has Sherlock so fascinated with oranges?


	13. Cutting Down the Drama

"BORED," Sherlock practically shouted outside, his frustrated statement one long drug-out growl with flames darting between his teeth. The fed up dragon thumped his tail for emphasis, deepening the long crater in the sidewalk.

John looked over from where he was fixing some tea for himself (which came with a ridiculously plentiful amount of food) in the kitchen and shook his head, knowing the sound of splintering sidewalk far too well.

"Sherlock, I know you're in serious lack of intellectual stimulant—" John started as he stirred a last bit of sugar into his tea.

"Oh, you have no _idea_, John."

"But you don't have to be so destructive about it," John finished exasperatedly. He picked up his plate and mug and carefully walked down the ever-handy stepladder. "Seriously, Sherlock, this temper tantrum is not in the budget."

Sherlock's neck stiffened. "I'm not having a temper tantrum," he said indignantly. "I'm _bored._"

"Sherlock, creating a _canyon_ in the pavement _is_ a temper tantrum," John replied, giving the dragon an incredulous look.

"It is not," Sherlock argued.

"It is."

"Isn't."

"Is."

"_Isn't!_" Smoke billowed from Sherlock's nostrils and he bared his teeth fearsomely. John merely shook his head and muttered, "You're such a child," before turning away to set his tea things up on the little space he had shoved out for them. He climbed up into the chair and reached forward to take the mug of tea, anticipating the flavor that tickled at his nose.

Sherlock's head pivoted sharply, ears pricking forward with keen alertness. "John."

John halted his tea progress right before it reached his lips and lowered the mug. "Sherlock, if this is about oranges again, _I swear_…"

"Someone is coming up the stairs," Sherlock cut him off. "No one we know. Small, possessing a sore hip so he is limping on his right leg. Dress shoes and a remarkably expensive suit." His eyes narrowed, increasing rather than reducing their glow. "And carrying explosives."

John flung his tea away and shot across the room to where he stored his gun. He jerked to a stop when seemingly from nowhere red lasers speckled his features. John had no need of genius to know exactly what those meant.

The door opened. Nonchalantly, a small man wearing a perfectly tailored stepped in, a sadistically playful smile on his face. "Hello, Sherlock," he sang, and John shuddered at how soft the man's voice was. "Nice to finally meet you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, the glow in them a raging white, and a deep growl issued from his throat. "Moriarty."

"Please," Moriarty said, pale eyes wrinkling, "call me Jim." He flashed that disturbing smile again, then gestured to John. "Now, about your pet—"

Sherlock blasted his head _through_ the wall of 221b and ate Moriarty. The lasers vanished instantly. John stared with a repulsed fascination at the two dress shoes poking past the dragon's scaly lips.

"You… you just _ate_ Moriarty…" John said, pointing at the shoes.

"I have," Sherlock replied, mumbling around a mouthful of villain.

"That, um," John put his hands in his pockets, then pulled them back out and folded his arms indecisively. "That's a bit undramatic, don't you think?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, it _is_ rather dull. Pity." He swallowed and the shoes disappeared from sight. "And Moriarty has an appalling flavor. Not at all like an orange."

"There you go, talking about that fruit again," John complained. "Really, what is it with you and oranges?"

He stopped and surveyed the damage caused by Sherlock's colossal head-ramming. "Oh dear." He looked at Sherlock despairingly. "How are we going to explain to Mrs. Hudson about _this?_"

Sherlock stared back at him in alarm. "Oh."

**...**

Outside, peering through the driver's door window of a cab, was the real Moriarty. His eyes were wide and terrified, and they held a most peculiar sort of glee. Sherlock was _much_ more dangerous than he had expected. It was always such a delight, being surprised by the distinguished Mr. Holmes.

It was a good thing he had sent someone else on ahead. If he'd gone in himself he'd be Sherlock-meal right now. The explosives his fake had been carrying didn't even rupture the transformed consulting detective's stomach.

Moriarty changed the cab out of idle and drove away. Time to spend another few years of his life thinking up the perfect plan to destroy Sherlock Holmes.

* * *

><p>I have been waiting for the chance to use this scenario since I started ConJoHo back in October. Because in this story, Moriarty and Sherlock haven't met yet. So time for funs!<p>

If I had to choose a favorite moment (which is really hard with this particular chapter), it would probably be John staring at Sherlock in horror and wondering "How are we going to explain to Mrs. Hudson about _this?_"

Now, off to watch _Reichenbach_ with my older sister, because I haven't seen it yet and she has. I'm sure to crawl away sobbing and write something either super angsty or minorly fluffy to console myself.


	14. Impossible

"You seem to be showing an affinity for American films of late, John," Sherlock remarked as the hobbit happily unwrapped his new purchase. "I can barely recall the last time you made me sit through a James Bond movie."

"Shut up, Sherlock," John said, raising the DVD case to gaze at with shining eyes. "This is _Mission: Impossible._"

"Which I suppose is as sacred as James Bond, Indiana Jones, etcetera," Sherlock muttered, his tone a blend of bored and sarcastic.

"Absolutely," John answered with conviction. "And this one is the best yet."

"Mm." Sherlock gave a criticizing snort that produced smoke from his nostrils and turned away in disinterest, making to shuffle his scaly tail off.

John glared at the surreptitiously retreating dragon (at least, _Sherlock_ thought he was being surreptitious), then a sly grin appeared on his face.

"It's got Hawkeye in it," he called after him.

Sherlock stopped and rotated himself around to stare at John. "It does?" he asked.

John nodded, his sly smile turning triumphant. Of all the Avengers, Hawkeye was the one Sherlock had the least disdain for. In fact, someone who knew Sherlock as John did could tell that he had a some admiration for the character. Of all the superheroes, he was one who was truly remarkable in that he ranked among the world's six most powerful in spite of having neither superpowers nor massive intellect.

The fact that he was an archer made Sherlock slightly apprehensive, though, for reasons he would not say.

"Yeah," John replied. "He's in the main cast."

Sherlock drew his head back, wings shifting distrustfully. "The star is Tom Cruise, though," he said. "I will not watch something with Tom Cruise."

"The co-star is Jeremy Renner, though," John answered, carefully shaking the DVD for emphasis. "And he even gets to knock Tom Cruise around once."

Sherlock's scaly brow lifted in interest. "He does?"

"A bit, yeah."

Sherlock quickly wiped the keen look off his snout. "That might be worth agonizing through," he said.

John grinned and put the disc into the player. As the menu came up, he moved aside the tarp that covered the hole in 221b's wall, and the dragon stuck his head through. John dragged the TV stand so as to change the screen's angle, and Sherlock nodded when it was in a suitable location.

John grabbed a few snacks (though now that he was a hobbit "a few snacks" meant "a square meal") and climbed up into the seat next to Sherlock's head, grabbed the remote, and pressed play. Sherlock's derisive, analytical commentary started immediately, and John suffered through it until William Brandt was introduced and Sherlock said, "Obviously hiding something."

John turned in his chair and glared up at Sherlock. "If you don't shut it right now, I'll turn the movie off," he said ominously.

It was a genuine threat. Sherlock with his giant claws couldn't start the movie back up again, no matter how precisely he tapped. The dragon closed his mouth. John smiled satisfactorily and settled back in his chair. Sherlock was quiet through the rest of the movie, though there were a few occasions where he couldn't contain a comment.

As the credits were rolling, sometime during the Russian music, Sherlock asked, "Can I talk now?"

"Sure," John said. He pointed his head straight up to look at the dragon. "So, what did you think?"

"Obviously…" Sherlock said slowly. He paused, seeming to consider _which_ painfully obvious thing to him that he should point out first. He nodded as he made his decision. "William Brandt is Clint Barton."

John grinned in total approval and nodded. "We are of the same mind, Sherlock," he said.

"God, I hope not," Sherlock muttered, and John snorted.

* * *

><p>Oh my gosh, where did July go? *hides face in hands* I swore to myself that I would have something before the 10th! I really thought I could do it! Audible sigh, oh fail my life. ;-)<p>

But thank you Jeremy Renner and _Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol._ Otherwise I would be dead in the water right now.

And now, to work on the other two options I had started for ConJoHo #14. *cries "Tally Ho!" and charges off into the darkness... and promptly trips over a chair*


	15. Outdoor Project

"Sherlock," John said, looking up at the dragon walking alongside him, "what are we doing here?"

"It's for my work, John, I've told you this already," Sherlock said imperiously.

"This is the fourth time we've come to the same wood, Sherlock," John said grouchily. "And if you leave me here to find my way out of this forest in the dark _again_, so help me…"

"I am doing nothing of the kind, John," Sherlock said, his tone holding oft-heard disdain.

"What does this have to do with the case, anyway?" John wondered.

Sherlock stopped a moment and looked down at him. "I never said this had anything to do with the case, John," he said. "As a matter of fact, it doesn't. Not remotely." So saying, he continued on.

John had to trot to keep up with the dragon's sedate pace. "It's not? Well then, what is it for? One of your scientific experiments?"

Sherlock scoffed. "No."

"What, then?"

"My talents were requested," Sherlock said briskly.

"So, it is a case then?" John asked.

"No."

"Then _what?_"

Sherlock turned his head to answer but a commanding voice called from ahead of them.

"Sherlock Holmes!"

John and Sherlock both looked over at the small and snappy-eyed woman standing on the trail. "You're late!" she accused Sherlock, who very nearly shrank under her gaze. "Call was thirty minutes ago!"

"I had to bring my friend," Sherlock muttered.

"I don't care if he's your father," the woman replied. "Call was thirty minutes ago, and you needed to be here _then._ Get moving, Holmes." As the skulking dragon shuffled off, she added, "Be brilliant."

"Of course I'll be," Sherlock said sourly. "What else did you expect?"

She pointed to wherever it was that Sherlock was supposed to have been half an hour ago, and obligingly the scaly Londoner went.

John came over to her. It was nice, not having to crane his neck up so far to see someone's face. The woman turned to face him and briefly offered a hand. "Liz," she introduced herself curtly. "I'm the stage manager."

"Stage mana—" John blinked as he realized. "_Oh_, so that's what Sherlock's been up to," he chuckled. "Outdoor theatre."

"You didn't know?" Liz queried.

"No. Sherlock never tells me anything."

"Huh." Liz pointed the opposite direction she had banished Sherlock off to. "Trailhead's up there. Stay on the other side, you'll be allowed in when house opens."

John nodded. "Right." He paused. "What show is this, by the way?"

Liz offered a strange smile. "Officially we're doing _Camelot_, but once Holmes got on board as Mordred there was a lot of rewriting. Now we're not even sure anymore." She turned. "I need to go. You had better be on the other side of that trailhead until house opens."

"I will," John promised, and made his way back up.

Mrs. Hudson would love this show, John thought. Sherlock made a very good stage dragon and villain. Also he sang surprisingly well. What surprised John most and for some reason also didn't was that during curtain call, it was Sherlock who got the greatest applause. The dragon's slow blink told John that he also hadn't been expecting such a thing.

Afterwards, as John and Sherlock were talking (John berating "Why didn't you tell me this is what you've been doing?"), a swarm of young boys rushed up to the dragon.

"You were great—" "—super cool—" "—it was so funny that you were _Mordred_—" "—is that costume really heavy?" "—I wanna play a dragon someday."

Sherlock looked down at them and stated, "This isn't a costume."

The boys couldn't seem to decide between mortal terror or total awe. Their parents drug them off.

John looked over as a little boy approached, maybe five years old, pulling his younger sister along. She was hiding behind him, tugging on his hand to indicate she wanted to go the other way, but the boy was determined to talk to the dragon.

"Danny, Danny, I don't want to go by the dragon," she said fearfully.

"Don't worry, Emily, I'll protect you," the brother soothed. For some reason the brief exchange hit John: this tiny five-year-old telling his baby sister that he would protect her from the dragon. There were few _adults_ who would step up to such a task.

Sherlock regarded the two with a disdainful expression, and John had the horrible feeling that he would say something cruel to the children, but before he could stop him and before Sherlock said anything, Liz's commanding voice rang out again.

"Holmes!"

Sherlock looked over. Liz gave him a hard stare and said, "We talked about this."

Sherlock slowly nodded. Liz disappeared backstage, relocating props no doubt, and Sherlock looked back over at the two children, little Danny bravely standing in front of his sister.

"That's right, Emily, he will protect you," Sherlock said, and John was stunned that the dragon's growling voice could be so gentle. "A dragon like me doesn't stand a chance against your brother."

Relief and faith swept into the girl's face, and Danny stood up straighter, a proud look in his eyes. "That's right, Emily," he said, echoing Sherlock's words.

Sherlock smiled, and John noticed he took care not to part his lips. What was happening? Sherlock was being _nice?_ To _children?_ Liz had more authority over this dragon than John had realized. He needed to learn her secret.

The conversation between Sherlock and John continued, occasionally interrupted by the approach of an audience member of that afternoon's show. Then John was ordered once more to the surface and Sherlock had to disappear backstage in preparation for the second show of the day.

Once up top, John dug his phone out and called Mrs. Hudson. "Mrs. Hudson, do you like outdoor theatre?" he asked.

"Oh, I love it," Mrs. Hudson said excitedly. "I used to do it when I was a young girl."

"Well, Sherlock's in a show," John said. "He's actually rather brilliant, and it'll definitely be the most unique version of _Camelot_ you'll ever see."

"Ooh, sounds wonderful," Mrs. Hudson said. "When is it?"

"Well, the second show is about to start in a couple hours, but it'll finish late," John said. "There's another Sunday afternoon, if you'd like to come."

"I'd love to. I'll call some of Sherlock's friends; theatre is always better with a group."

_Sherlock's friends?_ John realized she meant Lestrade and Molly and such. Though Sherlock might have a conniption onstage if Mycroft showed up. John snickered. He and Mrs. Hudson said goodbye, and John put his phone away. He noticed the theatre staff were serving dinner and made his way over, digging out his wallet.

* * *

><p>Yay, new Conversation! And yet again, I'm basing the contents of the chapter after what's actually happening in my life. Yep, I'm in an outdoor theatre show. In Washington State, and we haven't been rained out once. It's pretty crazy to think about. Of course, our show is "Cinderella"...<p>

Distracted. Anyhoo, here is a new chapter for you, and I actually have another one that I should finish editing and have up tomorrow... we shall see.

Outdoor theatre is all sorts of bizarre _fun_. Just sayin'.


	16. Meeting Again

John was washing the dishes. Not rinsing off excess food bits and sticking them in the dishwasher, but actually filling the sinks up with hot water and suds and washing the dishes.

What could he say? It was another strange, hobbity inclination he had picked up.

He was just finishing up with the cups, humming loudly whilst he reached for the first of the plates, when a whisper of sound caught his ear and he looked over to the parlor. Seated in the window was the stranger John had seen all those months ago, back in February.

He had forgotten about the unusual fellow, but seeing him right there in the living room brought back many unpleasant emotions to John. Again, he got the impression that this peculiar stranger was very dangerous, and yet John felt eerily unafraid. He maintained a calm, even flippant, exterior.

"You here to tell me not to trust my friends again?" he inquired, wishing he knew how to make himself sound disinterested while asking a question, the way Sherlock did. Clever, the stranger choosing to return just when Sherlock had left Great Britain for a case.

The man—though John seriously doubted he was such—tilted his head just slightly downwards, as though in acquiesce with what John had said. "I… may be wrong in that assumption," he admitted coolly, seemingly unbothered by his possible incorrectness. "Indeed, it would be a great source of relief to us if your comrade Sherlock Holmes turns out to be a mere physical reincarnation of Smaug, and not the returning of his soul, but…"

The grey eyes pinched in worry. John realized now that they were grey. "It is yet too soon to know for sure." The _creature_ (John grew ever less certain of his humanity) looked across at him. "I only ask you to be careful, Dr. Watson. We cannot afford a monster like Smaug to be unleashed on this world again."

"And who is 'we'?" John asked.

The stranger smiled, his gray eyes not lightening in the least. "I cannot answer that."

"Alright then," John said. "Who are you?"

The smile this time was more melancholy. "That I have already told you, Dr. Watson: I am one who wanders."

"So, what am I supposed to call you?" John demanded. "Wanderer?"

"If you find it suitable."

"I would find it suitable to know your name!"

The stranger chuckled, sounding like an aged adult amused with a child's indignation. "Fare thee well, Dr. Watson," he said, turning in the window to go. His silver hair shifted with the movement and John saw the tip of a long-pointed ear.

"You're an elf," John realized.

The elf looked over, an alarmed and confusingly grieved look in his eyes. "Be cautious in your ways, Halfling," he warned quickly, and then he dropped out the window and was gone.

John shook his head and went back to his dishes. He wasn't in the mood for humming anymore.

* * *

><p>Ah-ha, return of the plot elf! It seems that he <em>shall<em> be weaving in and out of the story on occasion.

Oh, and Aya Toshu? Yours is coming up next. You know what I'm talking about.


	17. Claws

_For Aya Toshu. Hope you like! :)_

* * *

><p>Behind 221b was a surprisingly pleasant little spot. The three dwellers of the house placed there a bistro and some chairs (nailed down, of course, this <em>was<em> London), Mrs. Hudson had arranged a small amount of flowers after making sure Sherlock wasn't allergic, and John tended them.

John liked to step out here with a cup of coffee and a newspaper in the mornings. Or tea and a book. Some days he wrote up his blogs out here. Because strangely enough there were still things to talk about, even though Sherlock took cases even more rarely than he used to, due to his dragon form. He was now more a consultant than a detective, and he hated it immensely.

This morning John was going out back with coffee and a newspaper and a little breakfast (three donuts, a toasted English muffin, and a bowl of cereal—nothing much). Once outside he was greeted with what he thought to be a pleasant surprise.

"Sherlock, you're back," John greeted the dragon with a smile as he stepped out the door.

The dragon spun around with a snarl and pinned John against the wall with his claws, sending dishes spinning and shattering all over the pavement. John stared up at Sherlock, especially aware of the two claws on either side of his neck.

"Sherlock," John said carefully, suppressing the urge to scream. "What are you doing?"

"I get it now, John." Sherlock's tone was perfectly rational, and somehow that terrified John even more. "I get it. You're the hero."

"I'm sorry?" John said, not understanding.

"The Halfling," Sherlock spat angrily. "It's not the sidekick, the helper. He's the hero. And the dragon is the villain." The teeth bared, so close to John's face he could nearly feel the breath that hissed between them. "_I'm_ the villain."

_Oh no. Nonononono._ John immediately thought of "Wanderer" and quickly forced the strange elf from his mind.

"You're not the villain, Sherlock," John protested. "That's Smaug. Just because you look a bit like him right now doesn't mean you _are_ him."

"You don't believe in that argument yourself," Sherlock deduced coldly. "I've seen you watching me, John: how could you possibly think I haven't? It started back in February, then stopped after a while. But look, now you're doing it again." His eyes narrowed distrustfully. "You're familiar with this story. You _know._ Near the beginning of all this, you made a joke: _I'm looking forward to getting you killed._ I didn't know the story then. I do now."

The claws dug further into the wall, simultaneously shifting closer to John's neck. "The only way to ensure the villain's survival is to eliminate the hero."

"You're _not_ the villain, Sherlock!" John cried, panic fluttering inside his chest. "And I'm not the hero: you are!"

"I told you once that if there were such a thing as heroes, I wouldn't be one," Sherlock replied. "And I was right." Something desperate and trapped flitted into the dragon's eyes. "Don't you see, John? This is the way it has to be. It's definite; there's no way around it."

"Yes, there is," John replied. "There is, Sherlock."

"You're wrong, John. You're always wrong."

"Not about anything that matters." John lifted a shaking hand and poked Sherlock's claw, attempting playfulness. "I'm the one who told you you'd like oranges, wasn't I? And that setting a bistro out here would be a good idea? And that _Ghost Protocol_ would be a movie you'd like?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "Those are frivolous things, John. They don't matter."

"They're things we did as _friends,_ Sherlock," John said impatiently. "And those _are_ the things that matter. Not cases, not puzzles, not the amount of house damage you cause. But this." He gestured around. "Movie nights. Theatre projects. _Baking_, for God's sake. _This_ is what matters, Sherlock! Not magic or silly enchantments or the fact that we're modern resurrections of fantasy characters for a few years."

He poked the claw again, holding Sherlock's eyes meaningfully. "Not that you're the villain, and I'm the hero. Because that doesn't matter. You're a fool to think it does, Sherlock. You're wrong."

John's neck was bleeding. He could feel the liquid eeking into his sweater. But funny, he found he didn't much care. Still holding Sherlock's gaze, he said, "Now, why don't you put me down like the sensible and not homicidal dragon you are, eh?"

Sherlock carefully extracted his claws from the wall, the guiltiest and most confused expression upon his face. "I'm _wrong?_" he echoed, and he almost sounded relieved.

"It happens, believe it or not," John told him. His head tilted. "How did you find out, anyway? About Smaug, I mean. It's not exactly possible for you to read books right now."

"You remember Danny and Emily, the siblings from _Camelot_?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah."

"Well, they have an older brother, Harry, he's about six," Sherlock explained. "And when Harry found out I hadn't read _The Hobbit_… well, he told me where he lived and made me promise to come visit. So I did. That's how I found out what happens to Smaug."

Sherlock's face became very serious then. "I suppose I have made quite a fool of myself, John," he said.

"You have," John answered briskly. "But it's no problem. I'll just have to get myself some more breakfast." He gingerly stepped around the mess Sherlock had made of his original meal and passed through the doorway.

"John?"

John poked his head back through. "Yeah, Sherlock?"

Sherlock smiled awkwardly. "Nothing."

John looked at him for a moment, then disappeared again. "Alright." Sherlock listened as he trotted back up the stairs and made his way to the kitchen for his second attempt at breakfast. Sherlock lowered his head and curled up miserably on the pavement, so John couldn't see him from the kitchen.

Sherlock could tell that John's calm had been faked. It wasn't as though it was cleverly masked; Sherlock could see through it in a trice. And yet, he could tell that something in John… didn't want to be afraid. Didn't want to be afraid of Sherlock. Of his friend?

Wasn't that what he called Sherlock? _Friend?_ When Sherlock was in all seriousness about to kill him?

It was no wonder John was the hero.

* * *

><p>This turned out... to be easier and also more difficult writing than I had thought it would be. One thing I will say I didn't expect was John's comment all the way back in Conversation 2 to come and haunt us now, ten months later. What is this pulling of plot from thin air. And yes, the previous bit with the elf was totally setting up for this. *heheh*<p>

For those of you wondering, yes, John and Sherlock should be getting back to their antics soon. Though of course I can't say for sure—this yacht is being steered by a dragon, so who knows where we'll be ending up. ;)


	18. Across the Pond

I have been racking my brain for ideas (on the verge of almost literally doing so, actually), and then this one kindly dropped into my lap. It's a crossover with _Loki and the Loon_, an amazing fancomic that never ceases to delight me. You should go read it now. It's found here: loki-and-the-loon . tumblr . com

Also, random aside, I've been wanting to write or draw John and Sherlock and the gang watching _The Avengers_… with the Avengers (plus Pepper, of course). Welp. I officially don't know what to do with myself anymore.

* * *

><p>"It's idiotic, though," Sherlock complained. "It has been a year, John, a year! Not one person has noted or remarked upon or been alarmed by the fact that a dragon is living in London. And then <em>October<em> comes… and everyone's complimenting me on my CLEVER COSTUME."

"It is pretty clever, though," John replied. "One would almost think it was real."

Sherlock scowled. "You're not helping, John."

"Well, neither are you," John pointed out. "I have a date with Sarah tomorrow night, and you decided to snatch me up and flap me across the Atlantic Ocean, to investigate…" He glanced down at his phone. "A landlady's complaint about a furry blue rodent, which she suspects is an alien." He stopped, refusing to move even when Sherlock nudged him with his wing. "Sherlock. Think for a moment how stupid that is."

He stared up at the dragon wonderingly. "You don't even believe in aliens! And even if they do exist, you don't care about them. So why on earth would you drag me across the pond for a landlady?"

Sherlock had the tiniest bit of a smile on his face. "You'll understand everything shortly."

"Sherlock, I hate surprises from you," John said. "They always end in humiliation or violence, and on some particularly dreadful occasions, both."

Sherlock remained in his secrecy and passed John by, and the hobbit in exasperation followed. Gingerly Sherlock used the tip of his tail to knock on the door, and a commotion could be heard within. "Oh, that must be the people the landlady sent for!" a voice cried in dismay.

"I say let them come!" a second shouted in reply. "This little demon creature deserves whatever punishment it invokes!"

John and Sherlock exchanged looks. The door was opened by a tall, ginger-haired man with a pleasant if somewhat anxious expression on his face. His equally tall flatmate glowered with hostility in the background.

"Hello, you must be here about the landlady's report," the man at the door said politely. He offered a hand, which wasn't taken by Sherlock because he was rude and a dragon, and John had to rise up slightly to reach it. "I'm Tom," the man introduced himself. Somehow he managed to reach back and pull his flatmate to the front. "And this is Loki."

Loki frowned down at them. How he managed to do this when Sherlock was a good ten feet taller would always remain unknown. He did not offer his hand.

Throughout this strange turn of events John had somehow managed to stay calm. When Tom stepped back into the apartment to lead John and Sherlock in, John stared at Sherlock for a moment and Sherlock stared back.

"Good God, Sherlock!" John exploded. "That's Tom Hiddleston! And _Loki?!_"

Sherlock grinned excitedly. "I know."

"And there's some furry blue thing running around in their flat…" John stopped himself and pointed at Sherlock, glaring fiercely. "We are going to remain _professional_," he said firmly. "This is business, Sherlock, Mr. Hiddleston cannot know under any circumstances that we're fans!"

Sherlock nodded. "Agreed."

They followed Tom into the flat. A blue something-that-wasn't-a-dog launched itself onto Sherlock's face immediately afterward.


	19. Date

**_Author's notes:_**_ well, __Across the Pond__ was intended to be only a one-shot, but there had to be a follow-up—after all, Sherlock did kidnap John the night before his big date with Sarah._

* * *

><p>"You seem exhausted," Sarah observed as she and John said their hellos.<p>

John tugged some at the fringes of his suit jacket, trying to straighten out a few last wrinkles. "I'll be alright as soon as I get some caffeine in me," he promised.

"What happened?" Sarah asked.

John stepped out on the sidewalk and whistled for a cab. Calling never worked anymore. "Sherlock kidnapped me from the flat and took me for a fly across the pond," he explained as a cab pulled up to the curb.

"America?" Sarah said incredulously, giving John a smile when he opened the cab door for her.

"A landlady had made a complaint, Sherlock wanted to investigate," John said with a shrug. He closed the door.

"And he decided taking my _boyfriend_ would be a great idea, knowing full well that he was going on a date with me?" Sarah asked as John opened the door on the other side.

"Well…" John said slowly as he got in and closed the door. "The flat belonged to Tom Hiddleston and Loki."

He got no further. Sarah flung her door back open (good thing the cab driver hadn't started moving yet), stepped out and yelled, "Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock's head appeared from behind 221b, staring at Sarah with what looked amusingly like bewilderment.

"You took my boyfriend to America to meet Tom Hiddleston and Loki, _without inviting me?_" Sarah demanded.

Sherlock took on an expression of alarm, and without comment disappeared behind the flat again, a descending draconic periscope. Sarah sat back in the taxi with a huff and closed the door. "I hate him," she stated.

"I think you actually scared him," John said.

Sarah giggled, spoiling her offended demeanor. "Well, hell hath no fury…"

"We do have an open invitation from Tom," John told her. "I think he'd be okay if you came along. Loki, though… well, he's Loki. Oh, and neither of them know we're fans."

"They don't?" Sarah's eyebrows lifted. "I'm impressed."

"If Jeremy Renner shows up, though, Sherlock will ruin it," John stated. "Hm, I wonder if somewhere he and Clint are sharing a flat. Nah."

"Uh, sir?" The cab driver looked back at them via the rearview mirror. "What's your destination?"

John gave him the address and the cab pulled away from the curb. John and Sarah immediately struck up conversation; both had been terribly busy of late and this was the first they'd seen of each other in a couple of weeks.

In the driver's seat, Moriarty paused thoughtfully. Sherlock had made contact with Loki Laufeyson, someone reported to be quite brilliant, and more importantly, quite evil. A little too emotional and attached for Moriarty's tastes, but still, a trickster god from another planet had to have some good ideas.

Yes, Moriarty would just have to clear up his busy busy consulting criminal schedule to meet with this Loki Laufeyson. Jim had the feeling it would be worth his while.


	20. Loki and the Consulting Criminal

_**Author's notes:** welp. This was supposed to only happen once, but lookee there, we're onto the third one. Because there is no way Moriarty ain't gonna get in on this. I have to say, I nearly cried laughing while putting this one together, and it probably ranks as my favorite yet._

_Right, now I need to hurry off, because Fellowship of the Ring Pt2 beckons. Later, lovelies!  
><em>

* * *

><p>Jim Moriarty stood at the flat door with 9491 on the plaque and knocked. The door was opened by a ginger man who was significantly taller than Jim with a friendly smile on his face. Not the guy Jim was looking for, so this must be Tom.<p>

"Hello," Tom said pleasantly, smiling again. "Can I help you with something?"

"Yes," Jim replied, paying no mind to the blue thing that was currently chewing his ankle. "I'm here to talk with Loki Laufeyson."

"Thomas, if that's another one of Midgard's so-called supervillains, I'm not interested!" Loki shouted from within the flat. Tom looked apologetically at Jim and started to relay the message, but Jim interrupted him.

"I'm the world's only consulting criminal." Surely Mr. Laufeyson would realize the significance of that.

Tom turned his head to tell Loki, but before he uttered a word the god's irate voice rang out again. "Still not interested!"

Jim gestured for Tom to stoop over and whispered into his ear, "Tell him my Tumblr army is bigger than his."

Tom visibly paled; this was not a message he wanted to relate. Nevertheless, he straightened up and called in wavering tones, "Loki?"

"What?" Loki this entire time had sounded rather vexed with the world in general. Jim wondered if the blue thing had been chewing on _his_ ankle today.

"He says his Tumblr army is bigger than yours," Tom informed his flatmate in a tiny voice.

In half the time that takes up a blink, Loki was leaning out the door and glaring furiously into Moriarty's face, pointed nose almost poking a hole into Jim's eye. "You challenge me?" he demanded, sounding simultaneously incredulous and aggravated.

"Not on the Tumblr account, though my day will come," Jim said. "I was just trying to get your attention." He grinned and stuck out his hand. "Jim Moriarty, world's only consulting criminal," he introduced himself. "I've heard a lot of impressive things about you, Loki."

Loki seemed mollified by that. "Have you, now?"

"Yeah, from an old friend of mine," Jim told him. "I hear that you and Sherlock Holmes have now met."

"He wasn't that impressive," Loki said dismissively.

"Well, no," Jim agreed. "He's not evil in the sort of way you are."

"I'm not evil," Loki said, giving Jim a disapproving. "I'm complicated."

Jim smiled charmingly. "Just my sort of man," he told Loki.

The Asgardian stepped aside to allow Jim in, nudging his human roommate out of the way. "Come in, Mr. Moriarty," he said.

Lestrade and Sherlock were heatedly debating on a case (literally in Sherlock's case), when John's phone rang. He pulled in out of his pocket, glanced at the caller ID, and answered. "Hi, Tom." He listened a moment, a growing look of concern on his face. "Yeah, I'll get him." He put the phone on the windowsill. "It's for you," he told Sherlock.

"I know, I heard," Sherlock replied immediately, and listened as the barely audible voice came from the mobile's speaker.

Lestrade looked over at John questioningly, a hint of irritation to his face. "Who's Tom?"

"Tom Hiddleston, we're sort of friends with him," John explained.

"Tom Hiddleston… as in Loki?" Lestrade exclaimed in wonder.

"No, just Tom," John shook his head. "Loki's too disagreeable to be anyone's friend. Tom was actually calling about Loki, saying some criminal's come into the flat and now Tom's been locked in a closet while he and Loki are discussing things."

Lestrade gave John a wounded look. "You went to meet Tom Hiddleston and you didn't invite me?" he asked.

"You can take your phone back now, John, I've heard enough," Sherlock said abruptly.

"What was the problem?" John asked, pocketing the mobile.

"Moriarty's at their flat," Sherlock informed him.

"I thought you ate Moriarty," John said in confusion.

"So did I," Sherlock replied, his expression irked.

John sighed, face meeting his palm. "I hate imposters," he stated.

"Can I come with you?" Lestrade asked hopefully.

"Thomas, what are you doing?"

Tom jumped and turned around as Loki opened the closet door. He noted the spoon in Loki's hand and handed him a jar of Nutella. "Calling the pizza guy," he said smoothly. "It looked like you and Mr. Moriarty were going to be talking for quite a while, so I thought that you might like some... evil pizza. Yeah."

Loki crossed his arms (but it turned out a little awkwardly with the Nutella in one hand) and raised a pair of exasperated brows at Tom. "How many times must I tell you, Thomas, I am not evil," he said with annoyance, and carefully enunciated. "I'm complicated."

"Sorry, Loki, slip of the tongue," Tom apologized. "I meant complicated pizza."

"Hm." Loki looked at him suspiciously for a moment, then nodded and closed the closet door again. "Very well."

Tom fished out his phone and used the light to find a box of chocolates and some dried fruit. At least Loki had chosen to lock him in the pantry this time. It was very considerate of his flatmate.


	21. One Month More

_ONE MONTH MOOOOOOOOOOOORE_

_And that's basically all I have to say._

* * *

><p>"You seem cheerful," Sherlock noted.<p>

"One more month, Sherlock!" John exclaimed. "One more month to the _day_ and then this madness is over! Of course I'm excited!"

"Over?" Sherlock glanced back and shifted his wings, an unhappy look briefly crossing his face. He soon shrugged indifferently and looked back. "All for the best," he said. "You're terrible with a Blackberry, John."

"Not everyone is a mobile genius, Sherlock," John replied.

"Tell me about it," Sherlock snorted.

John would not be deterred by Sherlock's sardonic tones and hummed happily as he tore a vacuum through the flat, a pleased expression upon his face. Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the apartment, seeming to be a tad bewildered that her tenants were actually using cleaning supplies (heaven forbid!), and John shouted a cheery hello to her over the roar of the vacuum.

He rolled the machine to a different part of the flat, still humming loudly enough to be heard, and Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson exchanged amused looks. "He seems happy," she said loudly.

Sherlock nodded. "It's only another month until he and I both revert back to our natural states," he replied.

"You don't seem quite so enthusiastic about that," Mrs. Hudson noted.

Sherlock shrugged again. "Well, while John has had to deal with the frustrations of being less than four feet tall, I've had wings and fire breathing and goodness, if every criminal doesn't take me seriously now."

"That probably has something to do with you eating a fellow," Mrs. Hudson pointed out.

"You know about that?"

"There was a giant hole in my wall, Sherlock. And John hasn't yet figured out how to lie to me, bless him."

"Hm." Sherlock paused thoughtfully, his ears flicking occasionally to catch foreign sounds. "It does come in handy, when it comes to intimidation. I even got Loki once, if only for a second."

"Speaking of Loki, did you ever find out where Moriarty went?" Mrs. Hudson asked. "John told me he was gone by the time you got there."

"Yes, and all he left was a few slices of complicated pizza," Sherlock said remorsefully. "Oh well, it was good pizza. John didn't like it."

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. John came back in with the vacuum, by this time singing (Sherlock thought it sounded like a more fitting rendition of Les Miserables _One Day More_), and Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock burst out laughing. John turned off the vacuum and looked at them curiously. Sherlock had to cover his snout with his claws to keep from lighting the house on fire.


	22. Over Now

_**Author's notes:** Well, I totally meant to post this when I got home from going to see The Hobbit midnight premiere with a whole bunch of Sherlockians (cosplaying as Watson as a Hobbit, elves, Dean and Sam, and Agent Coulson because we jolly well could) and that was AWESOME. I just didn't get this posted because, well, it was six in the morning when I got home. And I initiated hibernation through most of the day. :/_

_A lot of you have been asking if _Conversations with John the Hobbit_ will continue through the next two films or not. Well, this will answer you're questions.__  
><em>

* * *

><p>John awoke absurdly bright and cheerful, and the reason it was absurd was that it was barely four in the morning. Finally, <em>finally<em> it was all over, and normal life would resume. He could look people in the eye again. Well, mostly. Still, even being more no more than five feet tall would be marvelous at this point.

Wait. Something was wrong.

"I'll kill him!" John bellowed, and Sherlock started awake outside. "I'll kill that Jackson!"

"John, silence yourself before I bite you," Sherlock grumbled as he raised his head to the window. "Some of us are trying to sleep."

"I'm still a hobbit, Sherlock!" John exclaimed in frustration. "You're a still dragon! Confusticate that Jackson, he betrayed us!"

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," someone responded casually, and John and Sherlock regarded the slender figure seated in John's chair. Wanderer was the name John had attached to him.

John scowled. "Oh, you again."

The silver-haired elf was unbothered. "Peter Jackson has not betrayed you," he said. "He promised to return you to your natural forms when this project was ended, did he not?"

"Yes, but—"

"There are two more films to follow this one." Smiling, he added, "I must confess, I am impatient to see the three of them, especially after viewing this first one."

"THREE?" John cried in horror, and fainted dead away.

"Three?" Sherlock repeated, and seemed more than happy about the prospect, his ears perking cheerfully.

John's phone released a text alert—it sounded vaguely like _ehehehe_—but since John had fainted dead away, he certainly wasn't going to answer it.

"Could you get that?" Sherlock requested of Wanderer. The elf located the phone and tapped in the combination Sherlock gave him. John could just change it later.

"The message is from a man called Tom," Wanderer said, and read aloud.

_John, Sherlock! The Hobbit was PHENOMENAL! %100 percent worthy of my uncontrollable excitement. :-) You did a brilliant job, John! Too bad there wasn't more of you, Sherlock. Next movie! Bravo to you both! :-)_

Wanderer paused as the phone this time gave an unremarkable chirp, and said, "This texter has no identification."

_Mr. Holmes, I am quite disappointed by the certain lack of dragons this epic has thus far displayed. I am told you shall enjoy a more prominent role in the future. Dr. Watson, your acting skills are greater than I had originally perceived._

_Also, if you should happen to see Moriarty, tell him he needs to give my scepter back, or I shall have to come get it myself._

"I wasn't aware that Loki even had a mobile," Sherlock said, mildly surprised. It was somewhat vexing how frequently the sulky Asgardian could catch Sherlock off guard.

"Neither was I, considering I have no knowledge of whom this Loki is," Wanderer replied. "I had best depart. Fare thee well, dragon." In a moment he was gone, and Sherlock realized he didn't even know who the elf was. Had John, of all people, actually managed not to tell Sherlock something?

No matter, he figure it all out later in the morning. Sherlock grinned. "Three movies," he said gleefully, and beamed at London for the remainder of the night.


	23. The Whole Gang

Hello all!

This year I unfortunately could not think of anything Christmas-y to write for ConJoHo, so I decided to make something else for you instead. It's here at my Tumblr blog, ladyoftheflyingpie. Just add _/tagged/conjoho christmas_

Enjoy, and Merry Christmas to each and every one of you! I have so much love for you guys, choosing to take the time to read and review. It's an absolute honor, and every day it blows me away. And some of you I have received the even greater honor of calling friends.

Every single message, notification, or review you send to me is a source of joy for me. I love you all so much. And so, this is my gift to you, trying to say that I really, really love all of you. ALL of you! :-) Merry Christmas *coughhappynewyearcough* my dears. May your days be merry and bright.

~Ardna


	24. The Fall

_**Author's notes: **_After... nearly a year, I'm finally back! Even better, the monthly updates have returned! Who else is excited for Desolation of Smaug?! _All of us._

Have some autumn fun. :)

* * *

><p>"Oh, I've missed this."<p>

Sherlock looked over as John's cheerful statement was immediately followed by a powerful gust of wind, and the hobbit sputtered as he tried to remove wet leaves from his face. "Missed peeling damp leaves off your face?" the dragon quipped.

John scowled up at the scaly creature accompanying him, his exasperated huff visible in the air. "You know what I mean."

"Do I?" Sherlock's mocking tone didn't have the usual biting quality it was known for. John had noticed it more frequently of late, that the consulting detective wasn't as sharply edged as he had been at the start. Certainly just as intelligent, and definitely rude, but not as much as before. Heavens above, was Sherlock Holmes actually developing social skills?

Once again, John didn't have a retort for Sherlock. He wasn't in much of a mood for it—the nip in the air seemed to be lending him an amiable attitude. It was funny how, when the weather turned cold, he could smell Sherlock's breath. Like hot coals in a fireplace. The leaves didn't crunch today, with all the rain there had been recently.

John didn't go to parks very often. He was a city boy to the fullest; he preferred asphalt and skyscrapers to forests and cottages any day. At least, that was how he had been before this whole hobbit thing. It was strange how much his preferences had changed, and how much they hadn't. He certainly didn't have any complaints about the culinary skills.

Sherlock stopped, talons sliding slightly on the wet pavement, and John caught the tip of the dragon's tail twitching as his ears pricked up. It was easier to read the detective's body language in his draconic form, since subtleties were apparently more difficult to manage in a larger body. He was deducing, John could tell from the swiveling of his ears and the slight cock to his head. What was he trying to find?

The dragon turned, placing his hind legs where they wouldn't crush John. It had taken some time, but Sherlock understood his proportions perfectly. No more trampling things or knocking over street signs. The dragon's nostrils were stretched wide as he stared east.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted and shook his head—a dragon's equivalent to a shrug—and turned back to John, resuming his walk. "Nothing. I had suspected that we were being watched, but we're alone."

* * *

><p>Sherlock and John were not alone. Had anyone else been spying on the cross-species duo, they would have immediately been spotted by the consulting detective. But the consulting detective would always meet his match in the consulting criminal. Jim Moriarty was back, and this time he wanted to keep the game going.<p>

Not finish it, of course. That would be disappointing. But raising the stakes was always a treat. The genius grinned, dark eyes crinkling malevolently as he looked over at his compatriot. "See them, Seb?"

Sebastian Moran was still a little surly for having been denied his usual cigarettes. The smoke would have been a dead giveaway, and besides, Jim didn't want his best assassin to die of disease. The sniper didn't take his eye away from the scope as he answered: "A dragon and a hobbit. Bit difficult to miss, sir. Where'd Holmes find a scarf that size, anyway?"

Jim lightly rapped a knuckle on top of Moran's head. "Don't sass me, Seb. This isn't the time." The consulting detective formed an expression that bore striking resemblance to a pout. "Besides, it's cold out here."

"Yes, sir, I know you hate being cold, sir." Sebastian had mastered the art of being simultaneously sarcastic and respectful years ago. It was one of the reasons he had been around for so long. "You didn't have to come, sir. You usually don't."

"Oh, you know how it is with Sherlock Holmes."

"Hm." Sebastian tucked the scope back into his pocket, scratching at the stubble that had grown out over the course of his previous assignment. "Your special case, isn't he." The assassin opened the case at his side. He didn't know where Moriarty had gotten the spear with the charged crystal, but it would certainly be a unique weapon to handle. There was no doubt it belonged to only one person, thus sliding initial suspicion over to them.

"Remember, Seb: it's the pet you want to take out. Just a little something to get Holmes' attention."

"Yes, sir." Sebastian wrapped his fingers around the cool hilt of the spear. It was too ornate for his tastes, but Jim always knew what he was doing. Sebastian's eyes lowered until they were only half-lidded; he felt the spear respond to the presence of a master, and knew it was time.

Sebastian came out of hiding almost too quickly for the human eye to follow, judging John Watson's position in less than a second and taking the shot.


	25. The Catch

_**Author's notes: **_Why didn't I bring in Seb sooner? I'm loving this guy.

* * *

><p>Sherlock had realized something was wrong in the split second before his ears caught the sharp whine of a charging weapon. The dragon reacted immediately, using his tail to knock John aside and dropping almost to his belly to cover the hobbit, wings tucked in for protection. A pulse of blue energy blasted through an adjacent tree, and Sherlock positioned his shoulders to take the brunt of the weight.<p>

"What was that?!" John was winded and a bit scraped up—Sherlock hadn't been very gentle when he had moved him out of the way—and he struggled up to a sitting position, eyes wide as he realized Sherlock had a good-sized tree spread across his shoulders. The doctor immediately noticed the scorch marks along the side of Sherlock's right foreleg. "You're hurt."

"I'm fine," Sherlock replied curtly. His eyes narrowed, and John could see the glow of fire between the dragon's teeth. "That was Loki's scepter."

Right before Sebastian had fired, a hand much bigger than Moriarty's had fallen on the sniper's shoulder as an unfamiliar voice bid him good day. The sheer unexpectedness of this had startled the assassin, so his shot went wide and missed John Watson by an embarrassing distance. Sebastian's eyes widened as the targetless energy cut straight through a tree. Jim hadn't mentioned that the weapon he held was capable of so much.

"I believe you have something of mine, mortal." The tall, green-eyed gentleman who had interrupted Sebastian spoke politely, but he bore a menacing air that somehow managed to surpass Moriarty's. The stranger gestured to the spear in Sebastian's hand, and the assassin's eyes widened slightly as he felt his stomach plummet. If there was even a remote chance that this man was the mind behind the weapon he held…

"Loki," Jim said amiably. His voice was barely a fraction higher than usual, much to Sebastian's alarm. The genius hadn't expected these consequences to catch up with them so quickly. "Long time, no see."

"Indeed." Loki plucked the spear from Sebastian's hand. It was now that the assassin made the connection—Loki, god of ancient Norse myth and the one responsible for the madness in Manhattan more than a year back. Sebastian remained tense, prepared to come between the Asgardian and his employer if need be.

The air around the spear flickered green, and then it was gone. The glance Loki gave Moriarty wasn't particularly vexed. "You should stay by for pizza again sometime," he suggested. "Bring your pet. I think he'll get along well with Stitch."

The green flickers appeared again, this time strongly accented with gold, and Loki vanished. Jim and Sebastian blinked at each other for a while. The assassin groaned, putting a gloved hand up to his forehead. "I need a cigarette."

"I find nicotine patches are more effective."

Sebastian's eyes snapped open, and he slowly brought his hand back down as he tilted his head up. Sherlock Holmes was looming over them both, his scales seeming a particularly angry shade of red at the moment. Sparks and the occasional tongue of flame were rising up from his nostrils.

Moriarty wiggled his fingers in greeting. "Hi," he sang.


	26. The Dark Field

_**Author's notes:**_ A little, little one this time. Have some fluff!

Also: JUST OVER TWO WEEK OMG OMG YESSSSSSSS

* * *

><p>"Sometimes I wonder how I let you talk me into these things." John stamped his feet in an attempt to restore blood circulation, his breath steaming in the night air. It was clear, so he was able to see easily, and it was also <em>very cold.<em>

"It's necessary for the case, John." Sherlock's eyes glowed, golden light neutralized some by the silver of the moon. The dragon seemed quite comfortable despite his frozen surroundings, his gaze continuously moving over the area around them.

"It's November, Sherlock!" John exclaimed, waving his hands about to display his vexation with the dragon. "We're standing out on the moors of _Scotland_ in the dead of night! What does this have to do with our case in Devon?!" Scowling, the hobbit tucked his now-chilled hands back in his coat's pockets.

"I'll explain it to you after it works, John," Sherlock assured the halfling. John just glared at him—they had been over this before, Sherlock's habit of never explaining himself to John even _after_ the case had been solved—and tried to burrow further within the layers of coat and sweaters he was wearing. Sherlock's brow furrowed slightly. "Are you cold?"

"Moors. November. Dead of night." John didn't often employ sarcasm, but when he did, even Sherlock could feel a little sheepish. "You tell me, consulting detective."

"You're being ridiculous." Sherlock stretched out a wing and pulled John in, ignoring the hobbit's startled squawk. Stuck between a folded wing and heated scales, John could feel his shivering ease. Sherlock bent his head around to look over at him. "Finished complaining now?"

"No," John grumbled. Neither he nor Sherlock could refrain from cracking a smile.


	27. Continuation

_**Author's notes:**_ ALKASJDLAKJDALSKDJSAF GUYS IT'S HERE AND I'M GONNA GO SEE IT

* * *

><p>"Is the tie <em>really<em> necessary?" John questioned. The hobbit frowned as he held the tuxedo up to his chest.

"This is a formal occasion, John," Sarah replied. She was already wearing her dress, a gorgeous, floor-length piece the same red as Sherlock's scales. Molly was going to do her hair. "The answer is yes."

"Hmph." John frowned again as he carefully set the tuxedo on his bed. "They didn't bother inviting us last time; why bother now?"

"Because it's gotten bigger. Though more likely, it's because Benedict and Martin insisted."

John gave his girlfriend a befuddled look. "I thought they were out of the loop."

"It's been more than two years, John. Honestly, I'm surprised they didn't find out sooner." Sarah leaned over and tugged on one of John's curls, provoking an indignant squawk from her boyfriend. They giggled at each other. "Now get dressed. I'm going to see how Mrs. Hudson is doing."

.

John spent the next couple of hours puttering around the kitchen while he waited for the ladies to finish getting ready. When they stepped out, he had to applaud. "Molly, well done!" he exclaimed, eyes glowing as he looked up at Sarah. "They're both… you're both… stunning."

Mrs. Hudson and Sarah both blushed a little. Sarah hugged Molly, kissing her on the cheek. "Thank you so much for doing this," Sarah said gratefully. "I only wish you could be coming with us."

"Yeah," Molly answered quietly. "That's not gonna happen."

Sarah squeezed her shoulders encouragingly. "Give him time," she advised. "He may be a genius, but he's a real idiot. Be patient."

"Oh, I know he's an idiot." Molly giggled, glancing quickly over at the window as though to make sure the idiot she and Sarah were speaking of didn't appear. "Anyhow, it's time for me to go. I'm working the late shift down at the morgue."

"Oh, I'll see you out, then." Sarah and Molly both left, and Mrs. Hudson and John were left behind.

John's landlady slid a look his way, her eyes twinkling. "Thank you, John," she said lightly. "I've never seen such an accurate demonstration of the word _agog._"

John laughed sheepishly, fiddling with his bowtie. "It's just… I've never seen Sarah so…"

"Resplendent?"

John laughed again. "I was going to say 'made up,' but 'resplendent' seems to do a better job of describing it." He turned to Mrs. Hudson and smiled. "And you look resplendent yourself, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson seemed surprised at the compliment. She usually was. The woman was clad in an elegant purple dress, also floor-length, and it had a lovely black coat to go with it. It lacked the slit in the side that Sarah's dress had, but instead had small crystals across the neck. John had assumed at first that they were rhinestones, but Molly had told him that it was actually jewelry.

Sarah came back into the flat, putting her hand up to the hair Molly had pulled up and curled. She was still getting used to the feel of it. "Right, I think that's it," she said, and procured her phone from her purse to check the time. "We're even ahead of schedule! Shall we go?"

John started to nod, but then realized that someone was missing. "Where's Sherlock?"

Mrs. Hudson and Sarah looked at each other, then at John. "Oh dear."

"He's usually so prompt," Mrs. Hudson continued. "Maybe he slipped back into hibernation again. He does that during winter sometimes."

John sighed. "I'll go get him, then. You two wait for the taxi, I'll join you there with Sherlock. This shouldn't take long." The hobbit pulled on his overcoat and went downstairs out the back. He carefully made his way to the giant, snow-covered mound that couldn't be anyone other than Sherlock Holmes.

"Hey, Sherlock!" John called. "You've overslept again." The snowy lump gave no response. John sighed in irritation, climbing on top of the mound and stamping his feet. "Come _on_, lazywings, it's time to go! Do you want Mycroft to find out about this? He'll never let you hear the end of it. We don't want another bus incident, do we?"

_Bus incident_ were the magic words. Sherlock burst into alertness, his head shooting up as snow went flying in every direction. John clung to one of the dragon's spines to keep from being flung along with it.

"I'm awake!" Sherlock roared.

"Great," John muttered sourly. "Now dry out all the snow you've gotten me soaked with and grab your bowtie. We can't be late to our own event."


End file.
